


Why Mycroft Worries Constantly About His Youngest Brother or How Willoughby Holmes Wooed and Won the Heart of James Bond

by LadyRa



Series: The Love Affair of Willoughby Holmes and James Bond [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU Post skyfall, M/M, Q isn't the quartermaster yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRa/pseuds/LadyRa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The youngest Holmes holds a minor position at MI6, but somehow still manages to do more damage than Mycroft at his worst.  Post Skyfall AU, Q is a little younger and a tad more innocent, and Alec is a good guy and still alive.  Reichenbach Falls didn't (and won't) happen.</p><p> </p><p>  <img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES: I made up the city I destroyed just to make sure I didn't offend . Q is a little stalkerish and revengeful in this but in a completely adorable way, even Bond approves!! And Alec is a good guy and still alive! Yay for fanfic! And if you recognize some snippets of dialogue, I stole some from Skyfall and Sherlock BBC.
> 
> Thanks to my betas: Annie B, Susan H, and Ruth for Brit-picking. I chose to stick with American spelling, though, so that's on me.

 

Willoughby Holmes has always been obsessive. That's not completely true; it would be more true to say that when something catches him, hooks something deep inside of himself, he gets obsessive. Forever. Once caught, he never lets go.

Computers, for instance. He discovered the wonder of computing when he was three and his fingers have never been far from a keyboard in twenty years. He'd had a dog he'd loved. A mutt Sherlock had brought home to experiment on that Willoughby rescued by means of a fierce fight with chopsticks. He still has a scar on his face, just below his left ear, but he wears it proudly because it got him Terry, whom he loved obsessively every day until the dog died.

By the way, only the fact that the vet swore the dog died of cancer kept Willoughby from running Sherlock through with the very same set of chopsticks, the idea his brother had done something to the dog very easy to believe.

He has one friend, a girl named Isabel, whom he has obsessively hung on to even though they met when he was four and she was five, and she moved away when she was seven. He refused to let her go, though, and today they are still friends. She currently lives in Cardiff and is engaged to be married to some boring and essentially kind bloke--and Willoughby would know, as he researched him exhaustively. He has the invitation to the wedding at home on his kitchen table and has every intention of going. 

So his list includes computers, his dog, now dead, his friend Isabel, and now James Bond. Willoughby is obsessed with him and will always be obsessed with him, even though James Bond doesn't even know he's alive. After all, Willoughby holds a minor position at MI6, a lowly technician, someone Bond would rarely, if ever, even speak to. But Willoughby knows him.

He reads all of Bond's mission reports, even listens in on most of them as they're actually happening. He's watched him on security tape when he's been recovering in Medical for the brief amount of time they manage to keep him there. He knows where Bond lives, really lives, knows who Bond's tailor is, and where he buys his alcohol. Some might call him a stalker. Willoughby just likes to be thorough. 

*****

Mycroft stared at the satellite feeds, at the small village of Istapanul which was, apparently, no more. It had been there earlier today, but now it was a large sink hole. Simply gone. Vanished into the earth from which it had come. He reached for his phone.

"Hello, Mycroft," Willoughby said.

"Did you destroy a village today?"

"I may or may not have. Why?"

"You cannot just destroy villages on a whim," Mycroft said pointedly.

"Please. It was on your target list so it was just a matter of time until you destroyed it. You're just angry because I may or may not have got there first."

Mycroft let out a long sigh. His brothers. Why? "Hypothetically," Mycroft said, "if someone like you chose to destroy a village like this one used to be, what might be the reason?"

"Hypothetically," Willoughby said with a touch of heat, "it might be because they tortured James Bond."

"007 is an agent who understands that he might be tortured if he is caught whilst carrying out his duties."

"They were exceptionally unkind to him. It vexed me." There was a pause. "Hypothetically."

"Just out of curiosity," Mycroft asked, "if the village had not been on my list?"

"I would have put it on your list, of course."

Of course, Mycroft thought. "Remember, dear brother, all it would take is one word from me to Mallory, and they would know your identity. Why you persist in staying in that ridiculous position when you should be running the tech branch is beyond me. You and Sherlock insist on living absurdly beneath your actual potential."

"Sherlock's happy now that he has John with him."

"And do you believe that you will one day be living the dream with James Bond?" Mycroft asked sarcastically. There was a long pause and Mycroft sighed. "He won't appreciate it, what you've done. In fact, he'd be honor bound to hunt you down and turn you in."

"You didn't see the shape he was in," Willoughby protested. "He's been in Medical for two days. Two days! He's never there for more than a few hours."

"I will not always be able to protect you," Mycroft said finally.

"I'm not asking you to protect me," Willoughby said indignantly. "I can take care of myself."

Mycroft almost had to agree. At least his youngest brother hadn't turned to cocaine like Sherlock, and some of the lessons of polite society had trickled into his consciousness, village destruction notwithstanding. "Be careful."

"Always."

"Dinner with Mummy on Sunday?" Mycroft asked.

"Pick me up?" 

And, Mycroft thought, at least he still came home for Sunday dinner, something Sherlock hadn't done for years. Mycroft still had hope that John would work him around. "I'll be there at half past five."

"See you then," and Willoughby hung up.

Mycroft replaced the receiver on the hand set and leaned back in his chair. He did his best to fight it off, but there was a hint of a smile around his lips when he went back to his paperwork. Willoughby had, after all, got rid of one of his targets, and it hadn't cost the government a penny.

*****

"Someone destroyed Istapanul," Alec told James.

James' eyebrows went up. "What do you mean?"

Alec handed over some photos. "As in it's gone. Wiped off the face of the planet."

James stared at the pictures. "And you think someone did this?" 

"Or something. They're calling it a sink hole, some freak of nature thing. I just think it's a bit of a coincidence that you get ripped to pieces there by some arseholes and now it, and everyone in that hell hole, is gone."

James considered the picture again. "Hell of a courting gift."

Alec laughed. "I thought you'd appreciate it."

"You did this?" James asked in some horror. He liked Alec, hell, he even loved the guy, but there was no courting allowed between them.

"You wound me," Alec said, clutching his chest. "And no, it wasn't me."

"Hmm," James said, holding out one picture he particularly liked, with a single brick of a building sticking out of the sand, the rest of it deep underneath. "I think I'll keep this one." He handed the rest back to Alec.

"Better than a dozen roses?"

"Hell, yes," James said. Somehow none of his wounds hurt quite so much now. After all, he was still alive to feel them, while all those fuckers were dead.

*****

Two weeks later, Willoughby was listening into an imbecilic attempt to extricate James from his latest mission. James had already been grazed once and had almost taken more fire due to the ineptitude of the tech person's ability to properly read a blueprint online. He had no idea what they were taught in the tech branch that serviced the double-0s, but it couldn't possibly be anything more useful than serving tea. They probably missed the mark on that as well and let the tea bags steep too long.

Willoughby intercepted the bumbling idiot upstairs just as he was about to send James back the way he'd come.

"007, turn left immediately," Willoughby directed.

There was a second's hesitation, but then James obeyed. Willoughby liked to think it was because his voice was so commanding, but it was possible James had planned to go left anyway. Willoughby had already determined where the extraction would take place, and it should have been easy enough for a primary school child to get James there without the need for any more unneeded holes being placed in his body. Willoughby had the blueprints, he had the satellite feeds, and he had every camera, smart phone, computer, and server in the building feeding him information.

"Right in ten meters," Willoughby said. "And then duck and roll. There are two infrared beams, one at one point five meters and one at four centimeters." He watched James run for the next right and, at the exact moment, said, "Now."

James took the right, ducked and rolled, and was running down the corridor heading for the exit.

"Don't go out that way," Willoughby warned him. "Take the last door on the right. Go through the adjoining door, I suspect you'll need to pick it open, and then you can go out the window."

"It's a long drop on that side," James said a little breathlessly. He had been running for a long time due to the idiot who'd been mishandling him before.

"Oh ye of little faith," Willoughby said. He'd already seen the ladder that was leaning against the outside wall. He didn't know why it was there, but there it was, and Willoughby was glad to take advantage of it.

James entered the room as commanded, picked the lock to the adjoining door and in seconds was pushing open the window and leaning out. "I'll be damned." In another moment, he was swinging himself through the window and rapidly descending the conveniently placed ladder.

"There are two men approaching from the front, they'll be in sight in four, three, two, one…"

James shot them both.

"Expedient," Willoughby said, approving.

"I thought so," James said smugly. "Where am I going?"

It was then that Willoughby realized James was bleeding from two places, not just the initial graze on his left arm. It appeared as if his left side was bleeding as well. "How badly are you hurt? Are you able to travel on foot for two point one kilometers?"

"Yes," James said, although his face didn't agree for a brief moment before he got it under control.

Willoughby rapidly assimilated all the information in front of him and sent commands for the retrieval helicopter to change positions, bringing it point eight kilometers closer.

"I've adjusted that to one point three kilometers. Head south southeast, and if you have no idea where that is, head for the temple behind you and I'll direct you from there."

James didn't move for a long moment and Willoughby began to search the area to see what held his attention. Just to play it safe, he said, "No."

He got a snort for that. "No, what?"

"I can only imagine that you're looking at either a car you'd like to steal, or a beautiful woman you'd like to…yes, well, you don't have time for either. The car will end you up at a blockade."

"And the woman?" James asked, his voice full of humor. "Where will that end me up?"

"With me taking all my toys and going home," Willoughby said sternly. He knew James had copious amounts of sex but he had no intention of enabling the man.

"South southeast it is," James said. "By the way, who are you? And what happened to the fool I was talking to?"

"I may or may not be an ally." Willoughby noted that frantic attempts had begun to trace his IP address, although he knew no one would discover he was right here under their noses. Right now they were so far off the mark as to be laughable. He had at least fifteen point two minutes before he'd have to run interference.

James was running at a steady pace, even if his gait was a little uneven. Willoughby continued to dictate his movements, helping him avoid two more men who could have been part of the group James was on the run from. Better safe than sorry, as far as Willoughby was concerned. In nine minutes, thirty-one seconds, James was at the helicopter being assisted to safety. Willoughby pushed a few keys to put the original bumbler back on. James was safe and that was all that mattered.

"Thanks," James said. "And I'll choose ally from your may or may not menu, if it's all the same to you."

"007?" the bumbler asked in surprise. "Where did you go? We lost contact with you. Where are you?"

There was a long pause. "I'm on the retrieval helicopter."

There was a longer pause, coming from the MI6 staffer. "I don't understand."

Willoughby grinned. Understatement.

"I want to talk to the other guy," James said again. "Put him back on."

"Who was he?" the staffer asked sharply. "Do you know his identity? He commandeered our lines."

James snickered. "Good for him. He did a hell of a better job than you were doing. So I'm done talking to you, but if the other guy is still on the line, thanks for your help."

"You're welcome," Willoughby said, mimicking a Welsh accent as he inserted himself one last time into the conversation, and then shut the communication down with minutes to spare.

*****

"They still haven't worked out who it was?" Alec asked him.

James shook his head. "Somebody just hacked the line and got me home, and without getting me shot again." He'd been shot twice when the original handler on the line had directed him into a room with three men with a grudge. He was fortunate it had surprised all of them equally, so they'd just had time to get lucky with two hits and neither of them serious. James had done considerably more damage with the few shots he'd made before exiting the room.

"Maybe you have a silent admirer who destroys your enemies and hacks MI6 for a lark to get you home safe."

"Maybe I do," he told Alec with a small grin. The grin stayed on his face for the rest of the day.

*****

The next time James got into trouble he also lost his earwig and had somehow lost his phone, so he didn't even have the dubious assistance of the tech branch's advice. Willoughby noted that he'd already stolen one phone only to find it didn't have a global connection and he'd ditched it before Willoughby could have addressed that shortcoming. The next phone had been low on power and again he'd ditched it. Stupid man. Just one more in the vast legions of ignorant people who still had no idea what you could do with a computer and intent.

James was currently blending into a crowded street in Casablanca, surrounded by colorful kiosks of locals selling their wares. He'd stopped at a street-side vendor to buy what looked like beef in a pita, deciding that eating was more important than getting connected to MI6. Willoughby sincerely hoped he didn't get food poisoning.

Willoughby knew what the agent's mission was and knew James had to get connected to be successful. The problem was that James didn't know that. He already had his instructions, knew who to meet and where to meet, but what he didn't know was that this had all changed in the last thirty minutes. The scuffle he'd just had in an alleyway, in addition to him losing his earwig, had set off a chain of events that would result in James being dead in a short period of time if he didn't check in. 

Willoughby's fingers flew over his keyboards, looking for the perfect opportunity to step in. No pay phones, and while Mycroft, and perhaps even Sherlock, no doubt knew someone in the area, Willoughby wasn't nearly at the point where he wanted to call in those kind of favors, as asking his brothers for assistance generally came at a very steep price. 

A man stepped up next to James, laying his phone down as he reached for his wallet.

"Ah ha!" Willoughby said with a grin. It was the work of a few seconds to find the phone, turn it on and text a message. "007! NEW ORDERS! OLD ORDERS WILL GET YOU KILLED!"

Willoughby was counting on James never missing a trick, and James, indeed, looked down and saw the phone, his eyebrows rising comically high on his forehead before he palmed the phone so quickly Willoughby almost missed it. James walked away, getting lost in the crowd, until he called MI6 to get his new instructions. It didn't take much time for James to realize they hadn't been the ones to get in touch. 

As James headed toward his new location, he texted, "ARE YOU MY MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR?"

"I AM," Willoughby texted back. 

"WHO ARE YOU?"

"I NEVER KISS AND TELL."

"SO THERE COULD BE KISSING?" James asked.

Willoughby felt himself blush just at the thought. He very much wished there would be kissing, but Mycroft hadn't been wrong about the fact that Willoughby's interference could be misconstrued as criminal activity. "YOU'RE TOO OLD FOR ME," Willoughby teased.

"PLEASE TELL ME YOU'RE NOT A TEENAGER WITH SPOTS," James wrote. "I'LL FEEL LIKE A PAEDOPHILE."

"I'M OLD ENOUGH."

"OLD ENOUGH FOR…" The text dropped off suggestively.

"HONESTLY, JAMES, YOU EVEN FLIRT WHEN YOU TEXT. ARE YOU CAPABLE OF ANY KIND OF COMMUNICATION WITHOUT SEXUAL INNUENDO?"

"NOT REALLY," James responded.

Willoughby zoomed in on James' face as he headed to his destination, stopping occasionally to text. Currently he had a wide grin on his face.

"STOP SMILING," Willoughby wrote. "YOU'LL BE NOTICED." He was entirely too attractive when he smiled.

"YOU CAN SEE ME?"

"I CAN."

"ARE YOU HERE?" James began to glance around, up at windows, and at the people around him.

"NO. I'M EVERYWHERE," Willoughby wrote truthfully. There were only a few places on Earth he couldn't be at a few touches of his keyboard, and those last few places were areas James was unlikely to be. "YOUR CONTACT IS AROUND THE CORNER. THERE ARE FIVE OTHER PEOPLE WITHIN TEN METERS OF WHERE HE IS WAITING. THEY MAY OR MAY NOT BE TROUBLE."

James nodded, stopping for a moment, pulling his gun out unobtrusively, keeping it tucked close to his side. He sent off one more text. "STAY CLOSE."

Fortunately no one even knew Willoughby was communicating with James, so he could easily stay close, digitally close. He should have told James to buy a headset so they could be talking directly. James would likely not have time to text if he got into trouble. Thinking it might not be too late, Willoughby texted, "GET A HEADSET."

James frowned, but stopped his approach, and it was the work of only a couple of minutes to pickpocket a headset that he plugged into the phone, slipping the phone into his pocket. Willoughby called him. "Better," he said. 

"Like I said," James responded, "stay close." He walked around the corner.

That was when Willoughby saw the shooter. "Get back!" he yelled. "Shooter to your right."

James darted back around the corner just in time to avoid being shot.

"I apologize, James," Willoughby said, "clearly I should have taken over this mission even earlier."

"Clearly. What the fuck?"

"I don't know. Can you find somewhere to wait while I work things out?"

James was moving quickly, evading the men who were now following him, but again, James being an accomplished agent, he lost them quickly. "I'm going back to my hotel unless it's been compromised. Can you tell?"

"Hold on." Willoughby began to check the hotel computers and security cameras to see if there was anything suspicious.

"Should I be finding it odd you apparently know what hotel?"

"That depends on your stance on stalkers," Willoughby said.

James laughed softly into the phone. "I've always been against them, but I might be changing my mind."

Willoughby grinned. "Good to know. The hotel looks clean. I need to make a phone call; I'll get back to you."

"How do I get in touch with you?"

"Text me. But don't worry, I'll be watching you."

"I'm not sure if I should be annoyed or turned on," James said dryly.

Willoughby blushed again and hung up. His next call was to Mycroft.

"Yes, dear brother?" Mycroft said.

"There's been a complete cock-up on James' current mission. Could you figure out what he's supposed to be doing?"

"Where is he?"

"Casablanca." Willoughby filled him in on the original orders and then the corrected orders. "They were waiting for him, and not for a drop."

While this was a favor, it wasn't a huge favor. After all, any mission a double-0 was on was a mission for queen and country and no one wanted them to fail. 

"I'll see what I can find out," Mycroft said and hung up.

At least this time his brother hadn't scolded him for his knowledge of confidential mission particulars. 

A text came in. "ARE YOU WATCHING ME NOW?" And then, "WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?"

Willoughby was almost afraid to look at what James might be wearing, or possibly not wearing, but in the end he couldn't resist. All the rooms had hidden cameras in them and he could see James, stripped to his waist, lying on the bed. He took a moment to look his fill, knowing James expected him to be looking. He wished he'd take all his clothes off. He wished he was in the bed with him. He wished he wasn't a virgin so he'd have a better idea what to do with the man if he ever was in bed with him. Sighing, he opened the response window and tried to think of something suave to text back. His mind was a blank.

In the meantime, there was another text. "DO YOU LIKE WHAT YOU SEE?"

"I'D LIKE TO SEE MORE," Willoughby daringly texted back, then let out an "eep" when his phone went off.

"Really, Willoughby? Sexting with a double O?"

Willoughby could feel his face going frightfully red. "Never mind about that. What did you find out?"

"I'm going to send James his new mission parameters. Of course, it's highly confidential and I am advising you to keep out of it."

"Of course," Willoughby said, acknowledging the verbal ballet for what it was.

Mycroft sighed, as he always did, and hung up. A large file was sent to James over the phone, and Willoughby moved it to his iPad and opened it up, reading along with James. He rolled his eyes. How was it any agent made it back alive? None of this information had been in the initial package James had received. 

"THIS IS INCREDIBLY HELPFUL," James texted when it was done. "WHY DIDN'T I KNOW THIS BEFORE?"

"GOOD QUESTION," Willoughby texted.

Mycroft sent his own text. "THIS PHONE NUMBER WILL NO LONGER BE AVAILABLE FOR USE IN THIRTY SECONDS, SO WRAP UP YOUR ROMANTIC INTERLUDE."

"WAS THAT SOMEONE ELSE?" James texted.

"YES. HE'S BOTH VERY HELPFUL AND VERY BOTHERSOME," Willoughby responded. "GOOD LUCK." The connection died courtesy of his older brother.

He watched as James rubbed the screen with his thumb, a lopsided smirk on his face. "Thanks," he said out loud to the room.

"You're welcome," Willoughby said quietly in his small space in MI6. 

*****

"Happy birthday," Eve said to him, giving him a kiss on the cheek. She sat down to join James and Alec, as they gathered to help him celebrate James' birthday.

It was odd to think that he had two friends like this now. Having Alec had already felt like risking fate; people in their business didn't keep friends for long. But somehow Alec had stayed alive, and now there was Eve. And that wasn't even mentioning his odd invisible friend who kept him alive and seemed to have resources far beyond what the normal channels at MI6 could provide.

"Did James tell you that he's being courted?" Alec asked Eve.

James shot him a disgruntled look. He liked Eve, yes, but he wasn't sure he could trust her yet with all his secrets.

"Tell me more," Eve purred. 

A waiter appeared at his table holding a wrapped box. "One of you James Bond?"

"I am," James said.

"This is for you," and he handed over the heavy box and walked away.

Alec frowned at the box. "Are you sure you should have taken that? It could be a bomb."

It was the perfect size for something explosive, but James stared down at the wrapping paper covered with tiny computer components and grinned. "No, I think it's okay."

"Is this from your suitor?" Eve asked.

"I think it is," James said, checking the box again for any hidden messages. Disappointed to find none, he ripped off the paper, finding a large wooden box inside. He unlatched and opened it, shutting it again and glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention.

"Is it sex toys?" Eve demanded, eyes sparking with devilish humor.

He opened it again and pulled out the small piece of paper sitting on top of the gun inside. He read: 'This is a Walther PPK/S nine-millimeter short with a micro sensor in the grip. It's been coded to your palm print, so only you can fire it. Happy birthday.' He handed the paper to Alec who then handed it to Eve. Alec turned the box his way and peeked inside, looking impressed. "Totally a sex toy," Alec said to Eve.

James laughed delightedly, glancing around, wishing he knew who this man was, what he looked like, how he knew everything to do with James, how he seemed able to know or have access to anything James needed to complete his missions. For instance, the fact that James had been shot by his own gun not that long ago when someone had taken it away from him.

"Who is this person?" Eve asked. "I'm assuming it's a woman?"

James shook his head. "No, it's a man."

"You like men that way?" Eve asked, eyebrows up.

"He likes everyone that way," Alec said.

James rolled his eyes, but he did grin, "Why limit yourself?"

"Does this suitor of yours know what a slut you are?" Alec asked with a smirk.

"I am not a slut, I just like sex. And yes, I suspect he does," James said. After all, he seemed to know everything else about him. Although any time he'd tried to flirt, he hadn't gotten very far. He really, really hoped he wasn't underage, regardless of his assurances. And while it was true that James liked sex, he found himself very attracted to the idea of being with someone who knew him so well, who had made it his business to know everything as if it was his right. As if he worshipped James. James found, oddly enough, that he was okay with that. Comforted. Aroused. 

"What's his name?"

"I have no idea," James said.

That got Eve's eyebrows up again. She grimaced. "How do you know it's not someone really creepy like Silva?"

"It isn't." It could be, but James didn't think so. They hadn't talked a lot on the phone, but James was pretty good at hearing tones of crazy and there was none in this man's voice the way there had been in Silva's. Other than the stalker-type crazy.

Alec grinned at him. "I think you're smitten."

"He could be sixty years old, fat, and bald," James said. That would be a deterrent. James did like men, but he liked them hot and fit, and usually someone willing to fuck for a night and then walk away.

"Is this for real?" Eve asked. "Are you really being pursued by someone you don't know? This could be a security risk."

Alec and James both laughed at that. "Too late," Alec said.

At Eve's concerned look, James shook his head. "He's plugged in and he's got connections. The good kind. The information he's given me has come straight out of MI6 or higher."

"What do you mean? What information?" She gasped. "Is this the same person who keeps hacking into MI6 and taking over your missions?"

"The very same," Alec said. "He keeps bringing James home alive, so that makes him okay in my book. Not to mention he helped me out of a tough situation last week."

James had deeply appreciated that. He'd known Alec's cover had been blown but had been a continent away and unable to do anything except hang around the tech branch, hoping his new and very odd friend would intercede, which he finally had. He was leaps ahead of anyone they had on staff. James had watched and listened carefully in hopes of discovering his identity, to no avail.

"He keeps the tech branch on their toes," Alec said. "He embarrasses them with their utter lack of skills."

"Does M know you know him?" Eve asked.

"I don't know him," James argued. "I've never seen him and I don't know his name. I know he's British, but his accent changes whenever it's convenient, so I'm not sure where he's from. He's very clever." He lifted his glass to make an imaginary toast. "Very clever."

"And you're not concerned about this?" Eve asked Alec. "Even after Silva?"

"I'm not," Alec told her. "And you shouldn't be either. If either of us thought he was a threat, we'd be hunting him down."

That shut Eve up because it was true. "Well, then," Eve said, lifting her glass, "let's toast that he keeps bringing back both of you alive and in one piece."

Alec and James clinked their glasses against hers. 

*****

Willoughby, methodically, was setting up a string of coincidences at the end of which four men would be dead, the same four men who had spent hours torturing James before Willoughby could get a lock on his position.

His phone rang. "They deserve to die," was all he said to Mycroft.

"You terrify me sometimes," Mycroft said. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were the sociopath in the family instead of Sherlock."

Willoughby snorted. "We both know Sherlock is nothing of the sort, especially since John Watson."

"True enough."

"Are you calling to talk me out of this?"

"No, I'm calling you to tell you that your emotions have clouded your judgment. M's team almost found you this time."

Willoughby's eyes opened in alarm and he checked his computer systems. Mycroft was right, and if not for his brother's assistance his location might have been breached. M must be hopping mad to have gotten so close and the thought made Willoughby grin.

"In addition," Mycroft said, "one of your targets has slipped through your net. I have assisted in getting him back where you wish him to be. Please pay more attention in the future." Mycroft hung up.

Willoughby wondered what other families were like. Not that he really wished for another, most of the time, but it wasn't every big brother who helped his youngest brother commit cold-blooded murder. Of course, three of those men were on Mycroft's list, so his brother would benefit.

Paying much closer attention, Willoughby waited until all four men were in the building he'd chosen for this purpose, well out of the way of innocent civilians. When they'd arrived as prodded, Willoughby blew the building up.

*****

James looked down at the report Tanner had just handed him coupled with a query about what he knew about it.

There were pictures of four men, men he'd spent several hours with while they did their best to work out their aggression on his person. Apparently they were all dead.

"They're the ones who tortured me for hours. But they were alive when I left. Killing them wasn't in my mission parameters and the need didn't arise." Unfortunately, he added to himself.

"So you didn't arrange for them to die?"

James shook his head. "I wish I had, though." He flipped through the report again. "It seems odd they were all in the same place together. Their MO has always been to scatter."

"I'm aware."

"And you already knew I didn't do it," James stated flatly.

"Yes."

James wasn't going to start this conversation. He leaned back in his chair, crossed one foot over to rest on his knee and stared blankly at Tanner.

"Fine, you bastard," Tanner said after a long minute. "Do you know who your helper is?"

"No idea, but I've been grateful for his assistance multiple times now, and will continue to be glad to have it, no matter who he is. It's put all the double-0s on alert that your tech branch staff are seriously lacking. Why don't we have someone with his skill set working here?"

"If I knew who he was, perhaps I could offer him a job," Tanner said.

"Or throw him in a deep hole," James countered. "Which I would object to, by the way. I'm only alive because of him, and if he's killed these four men, you should be grateful. If I'd had more time, I would have killed them."

"You have a license to kill."

"I think he did it for me, does that count?" James said with a smirk.

"Bond."

"I'm serious. If he worked for you, you'd be turning a blind eye to this. So pretend he does." He handed the file back to Tanner. "You'll get no help from me on this, not that I know anything. But if I did, I wouldn't tell you. Sorry."

Tanner let out an exasperated sigh.

James snorted at him. "Oh, you really do want to offer him a job, don't you?"

"M wants to offer him a job. I think he wants to make him quartermaster, but no one has been able to figure out who he is."

"If I get the chance, I'll ask him if he wants to go legit. That's the best I can do. I can show you something, though," James added. He had his new gun with him, as he had been using it earlier for target practice. "He made me this."

Tanner took it, noticing at once the different hand grip.

"Try to shoot me," James suggested. At Tanner's look, he amended his suggestion, "Okay, don't try to shoot me, just try to shoot the gun."

Tanner made his attempt but the gun refused to cooperate.

James took it back. "He set it up with some sort of micro-sensor set only to me. No one else can fire it."

Grumbling, Tanner muttered, "We really need to find this guy."

James holstered his gun and stood, grinning. "I sort of like knowing he's just mine."

"And Treveylan's," Tanner pointed out. "And 003. He helped her through a mission early this morning. Word's getting out, and they keep asking for him through the normal channels as we're attempting to assist them. Sometimes it gets his attention. We know he's in London; we've figured out that much."

"That narrows it down," James said. "Good work."

"Get out of here," Tanner groused.

Snickering, James left Tanner's office.


	2. Chapter 2

"What now?" Sherlock asked contemptuously, as he exited his bedroom only to find Mycroft sitting in his living room.

"Something needs to be done about Willoughby."

"What's he done now?"

"He's got a new obsession," Mycroft informed him.

Sherlock winced.

"Exactly. It's the dog all over again."

That damn dog. Sherlock had tried to delete the entire affair but it was harder to delete things having to do with his brothers. Not to mention the two scars he had on his right side where he'd been almost skewered by chopsticks. "What is it now that has you so concerned?" He wished John was here so a cup of tea would miraculously appear in his hand. John was so good at that. Sherlock hated John's early shifts.

"A double-0 agent."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "A double-0? How has he come to even know one, let alone take him or her on as his latest obsession?"

"Him. James Bond."

"James Bond?" Sherlock blurted out loudly. He mentally castigated himself for the emotional lapse, especially in front of Mycroft, only able to take some comfort in the fact that his brother was equally disconcerted. "My question still stands. How does Willoughby even know James Bond?"

"He doesn't. They've never met. But he's tapping into MI6's lines to run his missions, and he's exacting revenge whenever it suits him when Bond gets injured."

"Good for him. I'm sure he does a better job than any of the other idiots at MI6."

"Clearly," Mycroft said. "Our brother is the world's foremost hacker; there is no doubt of that. But I cannot see how this ends well for him."

"Don't tell me you're here because you're worried about Willoughby getting his heart broken. You're not that much of a sentimentalist."

"He's murdering people for him."

Sherlock scoffed. "He's in good company. You've murdered people for me. I've murdered people for John; he's murdered people for me. Even Mummy's murdered people." He ran his eyes over Mycroft. "Besides, they're clearly people you wished dead, so that's not the problem either. Stop wasting my time."

Deciding that despite all his wishing, John wasn't about to pop in and make him tea, Sherlock reluctantly moved into the kitchen. Of course, he could make a point of not offering Mycroft any tea, so things were looking up.

Mycroft sighed and got up to join Sherlock in the kitchen, leaning uncharacteristically against a counter. "He's never been with anyone. Ever. I don't want his first time to be with someone who consorts with anything with a heartbeat."

Apparently his brother was that much of a sentimentalist. Would wonders never cease? He couldn't wait to tell John about this. Of course, Sherlock wasn't thrilled at the idea of someone having his roughshod way with Willoughby either. "Have you met James Bond?"

"Never personally. However, I am very well acquainted with him through his mission reports."

"Perhaps it's time to meet him. Lord knows you kidnapped John right off the street after I'd known him for one day. What's taken you so long to do the same to Bond?"

"John isn't an assassin."

Sherlock snickered. "You know better now."

"I do. And you'll notice I haven't kidnapped him again, at least not without advance warning."

"It's not like you to be concerned about something like this, though. Simply surround yourself with adequate security and find a way to take advantage of the situation," Sherlock said. Annoyed at his own sentimentality, Sherlock pulled down two mugs. If Mycroft smirked at him, he'd go home wearing his tea.

"He doesn't know Willoughby. I am not sure what approach to take. I can hardly caution him off when they haven't exchanged one word. If anything, it might increase his efforts to determine who Willoughby is, and I might achieve the opposite of that which I intend."

"So don't say anything," Sherlock remarked, handing Mycroft a cup of tea. He took it, unfortunately, without a smirk. "Simply take him and see what he does. You know as well as I do what can be gleaned simply by observing."

"True enough. Perhaps you should be there as well. This concerns you as well as me."

"Just tell me where and when," Sherlock said, curious now to meet the legendary James Bond. He'd heard of him, of course, how could he not have, given his family, but he'd never laid eyes on him. "Remember, though, dear brother, that you thought John wasn't right for me at first. It might be that the Holmes men are better at choosing our mates than any of us might think."

That got a startled look from Mycroft and Sherlock's tea tasted all the sweeter for it.

*****

James chose his target out of several available, a lovely redhead who had been giving him the eye all night. She had been with Puzinov earlier, looking very chummy, so she might have information James could use. "Can you give me some information on that redhead standing by the column directly across from me?" he asked his mystery friend. The man had come on about thirty minutes ago with some interesting intel that helped connect some dots for James.

"One moment," the man said.

"By the way, do you have a name? I'd like to be able to get your attention without saying 'hey'."

"Hey is fine," the man said.

James frowned. No matter how hard James tried, the man never let anything slip. Nothing. James knew little more than Tanner, other than that he was young. Not too young, but young. And sexually inexperienced. He got too easily flustered by James' teasing to be anything else. This evening might be educational for him and, James admitted, the idea of having his helper listen in was arousing.

"Her name is Antonia Ledovskoy and it appears she is your target's sister. She has been recently divorced, has two children, ages six and eight."

"Perfect," James said. He started moving toward her, letting his body and eyes communicate his interest.

"What are you doing?" the man asked, the innocence in the question further proof of his inexperience.

"I'm going to take the lovely Antonia to bed and woo what information I can get out of her during the afterglow."

"What? Why? Do you have to take her to bed?"

"Possibly not," James said, almost at the point where Antonia would be able to hear the conversation he was having with his helper. "But it's fun."

The voice in his ear grew suddenly frosty, "Enjoy yourself then. I'll be signing off."

"Wait, wait!" James said, turning quickly so he could continue talking. "Hey, wait!" 

Instead, though, he got someone from the tech branch saying, "007, do you require assistance?"

James couldn't explain the disappointment that swamped him. "No," he said in clipped tones, and then he turned back to the woman who didn't seem anywhere near as tempting as she had a minute ago. James had learned the hard way that lying to himself was never a good idea. So he acknowledged the truth which was that he'd been more turned on at the thought of having sex with his helper in his ear than with the willing woman's body beneath him. "Fuck," he muttered, adjusting his plans to see if he could woo the information out of her without actually taking her to bed.

*****

"Not sure I'm getting out of this one," James admitted.

"There's always a way out." 

"I'm running out of time," James argued pragmatically, even as he continued to try, futilely, to climb out of the ten meter deep hole he'd been thrown into, the one that was slowly filling with water. It was too wide to brace his body across it, and the mud on the walls just crumbled under his fingers when he tried to ascend. It was already a miracle that James' earwig was still working and hadn't been either discovered or knocked out of his ear when he'd been pistol whipped. 

"How long can you tread water?"

"Normally, quite a long time, but this water is freezing, and I've got a bullet in my leg." James had thought he'd be stuck with the MI6 drone who'd been of little assistance up to this point, and he would have destroyed his earwig rather than let someone like that hear him die. But then his helper had taken over and James regained some hope that his miracle worker would find a way out of this for him. If anyone could, it would be him. 

"I will find a way. Just don't die until then. MI6 is scrambling a team, and 006 is on the way."

"And when will they get here?" James asked.

The hesitant pause was all the answer James needed. It was nice that Alec was coming to help but last he heard Alec had been in Greece; James needed someone here now, and here was in Poland. It wasn't just the water that was cold. It was 4 degrees Celsius, not much above freezing, and it was pouring rain. James had been stripped to his trousers and t-shirt and then dropped in the hole, after being shot and beaten. His jaw hurt from his teeth chattering.

He could hear the clattering of keys through his earwig and found the sound comforting. 

"Fuck, nothing." Then, "Hold on."

It was ridiculous, but James was glad his friend would be listening in as he drew his last breath. It made him feel like he wasn't alone. He sincerely wished, though, that he knew who the man was. Then he heard two voices arguing. 

"Send someone to get him."

"I can't just…"

"Send someone, and I'll owe you. I know you have people all over the world, so go get him. I'll do whatever you want."

"Two targets."

"Fine."

"You'll have to fly to get to one of them."

"Fine, you bastard! Call someone. He's freezing to death."

"Where is he?"

There was some typing, and then the other voice went away.

"Who was that?"

"My brother."

"Anyone I know?"

"No. Not that many people just know him."

There was an interesting emphasis on the word know. "He's like the bogeyman?"

The man laughed. "That's a good way to put it. People rather wish they didn't know him when he appears."

James' hand slipped and he suddenly found himself under water. He came up spluttering, his hand going immediately to his ear, afraid he'd lost his connection. "You there?"

"I'm here." 

"I'm fucking freezing. Shit!" James tried to tense all his muscles and then release them to try to relax a little. He ached from shivering.

"Don't give up."

"Make it worth my while," James suggested. "Tell me who you are."

"No, but I will answer any other questions, as long as they won't give my identity away."

It was encouraging that he was sure enough of James' survival to still insist on anonymity. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"How did you get so good at all this stuff?"

"I'm clever. Very clever."

"I figured that out fairly quickly." James' foot slipped this time and he just barely avoided another dunking. His damaged leg was completely numb, but the cold water had a silver lining in that it would slow down his bleeding. "Why don't you work for MI6 for real?" There was a small pause but it was enough for James to come to a quick conclusion. "Jesus Christ, you do work for MI6, don't you?"

"I may or may not," was the less than evasive answer.

"They want to offer you a job, you know."

"Somehow I doubt that. If I showed up, I'd be arrested for treason."

"No, I'm serious. Tanner told me that they want to offer you a job. They're not stupid. They know you're better than anyone they have on staff. And just to make it easier, I've decided to call you Q."

There was a long pause after that. James closed his eyes and realized his mistake when he slipped in the water, the surface once again closing over his head. He hadn't realized he was that tired.

"James! James!" the voice, now Q to James, was yelling in his ear.

"I'm here," he said, spitting out water. "I'm here."

"Don't do that!" he was scolded. "I kept calling your name and you didn't answer."

"I fell asleep," James admitted.

"Stay awake. Keep talking to me."

"Why didn't you want me to sleep with that woman?" James asked.

"What do you mean?" Q said guardedly.

"You know exactly what I mean. I said I was going to sleep with that Antonia woman and you hung up on me and left me to deal with an MI6 lackey to finish up the mission."

There was no response.

"Are you there?" James asked.

"I'm here."

"But you're not going to answer?"

"You won't like my answer," Q said.

"I could probably guess it."

"Be my guest."

"You're the jealous type, and you like to think of me as yours, even if we've never met. Did I get it right?"

"You may or--."

"May not, yeah, I get it," James interrupted, managing to smile, even as he looked up the distance to the ground above, wracking his freezing and pain addled brain for a solution. "I think I'm right, though. I think you're totally nuts for me."

James didn't think he'd get an answer, but finally Q said, "I am."

"You've seen me at MI6?"

"I have."

"Can we meet? If I get out of this?"

"You're not disturbed by me being obsessed with you?"

"Nope. We double-0s deserve nothing less. Besides, I'm losing track of how often you've managed to save me. And avenge me." James' thigh began to cramp and he let out a groan. "Jesus." The water was currently up to his hips. He really, really didn't want to drown in some hellhole a million miles from anywhere. He hated to give those bastards the satisfaction. "You there?"

"I'm here."

"Has your brother--." A rope fell on James' head. 

He looked up to see two men staring down at him, gesturing vehemently and yelling in Polish. "Come on! Tie it around you! We don't have much time."

"Oh, thank God," Q said. Then, he added, "Do I really have to fly?"

"Yes," the other voice answered him, sounding much more aristocratic than Q's voice. "Bond, do hurry up," he said more loudly, as if speaking directly into the microphone. "You have a ten minute window before your captors will notice your rescue."

It was a struggle due to his frozen fingers, but he managed to create a loop to get his foot in, swearing as it was the foot attached to the leg that was shot, and then he curled the rope around his hands a few times. When he was done, he gave it a tug. As they pulled him up, he used his good leg to bounce against the mud wall to keep him balanced.

When he reached the top, the two men grabbed him and the rope, and dragged him to a jeep that was waiting a few meters away. Once he was in the back, they took off quickly, while James kept a look out the back window for enemies. He lost sight of the house before long and sat back down. One of the men tossed a blanket back to him and handed him a thermos.

"Dziękuję," he told the men.

They muttered something at him and seemed happy to ignore him.

"Thanks," he said to Q. "Really. Thanks. Oh, and can you blow up the house? I really should have gone back and killed them."

"You're welcome, and of course. It would be my great pleasure."

"Will--, go and wait in the other room." That was said by the brother.

"Why?" his friend asked suspiciously.

And did James actually have a name now? Will? William? He bet the brother was annoyed at that slip. 

"I wish to speak to Bond for a moment without you overhearing."

There was a dramatic sigh that got a grin out of Bond. Curious about what the brother had to say, Bond opened the thermos and gingerly took a sip. "Oh, that's good," he said, taking another sip of the Polish version of a hot toddy.

"Bond?"

"Still here."

"I love my brother, despite his murderous leanings and, while I hope you never meet him, if you do, and if you break his heart, I will destroy you. He may have a talent for revenge, but he is an amateur compared to me."

James found himself shivering, and it wasn't because he was still freezing his arse off. "Understood."

"Given that, it might be best if you never meet."

"I don't agree," James said. He definitely wanted to meet his mysterious Q more than ever. "Is he attractive?"

"He has a certain charm," the man said dryly. 

James could make do with charm. "I really want to meet him. And M wants to give him a job." James threw that out to see if the brother recognized the letter.

"I’m sure he does. If I had my way my brother would already be quartermaster."

"If we're all in agreement, why doesn't he let himself be known?"

"Because he's quite ridiculous."

"Hey!" Q's voice protested.

"Is it too much to ask for some privacy?" the brother asked with irritation.

"Yes, besides he's mine, not yours."

"And I just arranged for his rescue. And that reminds me, I'll have your ticket sent to your home."

"Flying? Really? Can't I get there by bus?"

"No."

A huffed out breath. "Fine. He's worth it."

"Not a fan of flying?" James asked.

"No," both brothers answered. Then, back to business apparently, Q said, "They'll be dropping you off at a hotel which I have already cleared, and you'll have thirty minutes to dry off and change."

"Change?"

"Yes, there'll be a change of clothes waiting for you."

"You know my sizes?"

There was, in James mind at least, an embarrassed pause.

It was the brother who answered. "I suspect he knows everything about you."

"Shut up. There'll be another car waiting to take you to a small airbase which will have a plane ready to bring you home."

"Lovely," James said. "I do hope you bought something in my favorite color."

"Someone else is choosing the clothes. Otherwise, I would have," Q said primly as if it would be unthinkable to do anything else.

James let out a soft laugh. "I can't wait to meet you."

"Remember what I said," the brother warned.

"I remember quite vividly," James answered. "And yet I still can't wait to meet him." And now he had four pieces of information. At least part of his name was Will, he worked with MI6, he was twenty-three, and he was about to fly somewhere. 

"I'm shutting this down now," the brother said, and then he did.

James pouted a little, but then he wrapped the blanket around himself more snugly, took another sip, and thought of ways he could use that information to net him his quarry.

*****

"Did you have to threaten him?" Willoughby complained, after Mycroft had shut down the connection. "He doesn't even know me. It's humiliating."

"I'm afraid we've given him enough ammunition tonight for him to find you eventually. I was foolish enough to say a part of your name. He now knows you work at MI6 and that you are twenty-three years old. How long do you think it will take him? The only question you need to answer is if you want to meet him. If not, I suggest you tender your resignation, and we'll send you out of the country for a year or two."

Willoughby's stomach flipped in anticipation, and he felt weak at the knees.

"Oh for heaven's sake," Mycroft said, pushing him into a chair. "I don't mean to be the one to burst your bubble, but even if you meet him, it doesn't mean he'll come calling with roses and a box of chocolates. He's twenty years your senior and can have his pick of almost anyone to bed."

Now Willoughby felt sick to his stomach. To come so close only to watch James choose other lovers instead of him. "Perhaps I haven't given this enough thought," he finally said. "Perhaps a little distance is a good thing."

He could feel Mycroft staring at him. "Forgive me, Willoughby, I did not mean to imply that you are not worth his time. What I mean to imply is that he might not be worth yours."

Grateful for Mycroft's kindness, Willoughby did his best to smile up at his oldest brother. "What am I to do? You're right, he will find me. And I will too easily give in." What had he been thinking? That James would fall in love with him? That James would find it charming to take a virgin to bed and then promise fidelity? His heart would be shattered; James wasn't a dog promising unconditional love. "I will send my resignation tonight. Perhaps I should change my name for a time? I always fancied being called Algernon. Maybe Horatio?"

Mycroft smirked down at him. "I think we can keep your name as it is. I will erase your name from the MI6 servers and that will stop the chase before it begins. We'll put a replacement in your cubicle who looks enough like you to confuse everyone for a day or two, and by that point he'll believe you lied to him."

Relieved and crushingly disappointed, Willoughby nodded. "That's probably for the best."

Mycroft touched the top of his head, ruffling his hair for a moment. "This way you'll continue to be able to offer your services. I can set up an office for you near mine."

Suspicious suddenly, Willoughby glared up at Mycroft. "You just want me to work for you."

"Of course," Mycroft said imperturbably. "And this way, I'll get you in my clutches, and you'll have access to everything you need to continue to keep Bond alive. We'll both have what we want."

"Right," Willoughby said. "We'll both have what we want." He sighed. "I wish I were more like Sherlock."

"Why on earth would you say that? One Sherlock Holmes on this planet is already half of one too many."

Willoughby smiled at that. "Because he just doesn't care." He frowned. "Or he didn't. Perhaps I should chat with him about how he deals with being in love. Or what he would have done if John had failed to return his affections."

"We both know what he would have done, and we'd have been retrieving him from a dark alley and pulling the needle out of his arm. The last person you need advice from is Sherlock. If you must get advice from someone, ask John."

"I do like him very much," Willoughby admitted. "John, that is."

"As do I. I can only hope you would be so lucky."

"And you don't think my luck extends to James Bond?"

"I think he would squander you and then I would have to kill him," Mycroft said grimly. "Now enough of this doom and gloom. Mummy will be wondering where we've got off to. In fact, I'm surprised she hasn't come searching already accusing us of being inexcusably rude for doing business on her time. Come on, get up."

Willoughby found his feet, wished intensely that he was someone else for a moment, someone exquisitely handsome who could catch James' eye, and then he followed Mycroft out of the room.

*****

Fuming, James stomped his way out of MI6 until he was on the pavement. He knew his obsessive, territorial stalker hadn't lied to him. He had, at least as of two nights ago, worked for MI6. But he didn't now. There was not, nor ever had been, someone named Will dot-dot-dot, age of twenty anything, working at MI6, who could possibly be his man. 

Two names had come up, but one was in the secretarial pool and female to boot, and the other was in his fifties, fat and balding, and James could admit his heart had thumped a couple of extra unpleasant beats until it became clear that the man had no computer skills to speak of.

The thing was, James didn't know what Q's motivation had been to either lie or to make himself disappear. There was no doubt he could make it appear as if he'd never worked there, but why would he do it? James blamed the brother; somehow he'd talked Q into it. He'd told him James would be no good for him or that James would only get him arrested, but given the sort of power the older brother had, James was sure he'd protect his younger brother if he was caught. Not to mention that M himself had approached James this time about his success in identifying his secret admirer. All the double 0's were asking for Q, and the staff were finding it difficult to explain to them that the man they wanted, the one that got them home safe, didn't actually work for MI6 and therefore wasn't available. 

He noticed a black car on the street and, as he took it in, a beautiful woman emerged, holding a blackberry in one hand that she barely bothered to look up from. "Commander Bond, if you would come with me."

He briefly touched his gun, his birthday present from Q and the only weapon he'd ever gone out of his way not to lose or damage; it had become something of a talisman for him. His thoughts racing, wondering who was asking for him, he walked to the car and easily slid inside. "Hello," he said to the woman, giving her his most charming smile.

She barely looked at him. "Hello," she returned, somewhat absentmindedly, all her attention on her blackberry.

"Launching nuclear warheads are we?" he asked. "Do they have an app for that?"

She put the phone down for a moment and stared at him. "There are drinks in the cabinet if you require refreshment." She went back to her phone.

"What's your name, then?"

"Er, Anthea."

James considered her. "Is that your real name?"

"No," she said with a smile.

James was starting to have fun. "Can you tell me where I'm going?"

"No," she said. "We'll be there shortly."

"Lovely." They rode in silence for a little over ten minutes while James checked his phone a couple of times to make sure there weren't any texted messages from Q telling him to leap out of the car instantly. The phone stayed frustratingly quiet. He felt a moment's actual dread at the thought that he might never hear from him again.

They pulled up to an abandoned car park and drove to the second floor. Through the window he could see two men, one dressed in a very expensive bespoke suit, an umbrella in his hand. The other was in a nice suit as well, but it was covered by an impressive great coat. They were both clearly older than twenty-three. Of course at this point, James had no idea what had been truth and what fiction.

James got out of the car and approached the two men. "Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?"

"Names are unimportant," the one with the umbrella said, and James instantly recognized his voice from last night. "I simply wanted to advise you that I have taken steps to remove him from your grasp."

The other man rolled his eyes. "Must you be so dramatic?"

There was more to this than met the eye. Q had been taken from his grasp already, so there was no purpose to this at all. In fact, this gave him more clues to track the man down. He stood there, taking the two men in, drawing some conclusions. They must all be brothers. Powerful brothers. Haughty brothers--at least these two were. He'd not had a sense of that from the youngest. "I already knew that," James said. "He doesn't appear to have ever worked at MI6. That was impressive work. I couldn't even find an empty cubicle." He paused a moment for effect, then said, "Although I suppose it makes more sense to just assume he lied to me."

"He doesn't lie," the dark-haired brother said immediately in his younger brother's defense.

"Then that begs the question as to what I am doing here? I already know you've hidden him from me. Why? Why isn't he being brought to M for a job as the quartermaster? You know we need someone of his quality." James thought it through. "Is this just because of me? Am I so frightening to you that you would keep someone of that talent away from where he could be of such use?"

"He is young and impressionable," the older brother said.

"He's obsessed," the other brother said. "And once he's obsessed, he never stops. He's safer obsessing over you from afar because you are certain to disappoint him."

Spurred by a flash of anger, James took a step closer. "You know nothing about me."

"On the contrary, we know everything about you," the black-haired brother said. "I know you have been in love, twice, and both times you've lost them. Both women, by the way. You clearly have the capacity to love; the question is, are you capable of having a happy ending?"

"And you accuse me of being dramatic?" the older brother said to his younger.

"That is the point, is it not? You want our youngest brother to be happy? To find someone to love and be content with?"

James had the weirdest feeling he was going through the exercise known as 'meeting the parents', something he'd never had to partake of. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure how to defend himself. Or if he should even be defending himself. He'd never even met his obsessive stalker, let alone asked him out on a date or tried to put a ring on his finger. His whole life felt dizzyingly surreal for a moment.

"You have enemies," the older brother said. "They killed your wife. And you have other enemies ruthless enough to create someone perfect for you to love so as to use her against you. You never suspected until the very end."

"Our younger brother would never betray you," the younger brother admitted. "In some ways, he's the best of the three of us. He actually likes people." He said that as if it were inconceivable.

That got him a look from the older brother. "Did you miss the part of how he's been killing people on this man's behalf?"

"Did you forget our earlier conversation about this very subject?" the younger brother asked. "John is the very best man I know, the best I'll ever know."

The older brother looked frustrated but didn't argue.

James was doing his best not to shoot them both, with their cavalier mention of the death of the two women he'd loved. Who the hell did they think they were? And did he really want to get involved with someone if these two men came with the package as brothers-in-law? 

"Sherlock!" a voice came from behind him. "Ha! I found you. Why haven't you been answering your blasted phone? At least it was on so I could track your GPS."

James spun around to see someone he hadn't seen for several years. "John Watson?"

"James Bond!" John said with an easy grin, moving forward to shake his hand. "What are you doing here?" He glanced at the two men. "Oh, don't tell me you kidnapped him." In an aside, he said to James, "If there's some way to add drama to a simple conversation, they're the two to do it."

James wondered if this was the John the dark-haired man spoke of as the best man he knew. James could believe it easily enough.

"Excuse me a moment," John said, stalking to Mycroft. "I just saw Willoughby off in a cab to the airport. The airport! He was already so drowsy with the drugs he'd taken I wouldn't be surprised if he fell asleep in the cab on the way there. And where do you get off sending him on a mission at all? I read the file. He could be in real danger!"

"Willoughby?" James asked, moving closer. "His name is Willoughby? And what do you mean danger?" Willoughby. As ridiculous a name as it was, James found himself hopelessly charmed by it.

"Our mother's book club was exploring the writings of Jane Austen," Sherlock explained with obvious disdain. 

"I'm serious, Mycroft," John said. "I've half a mind to go to the airport and bring him home. Why does he have to be the one to do it?"

"He is the only one who can hack into the main-frame there, and it cannot be done remotely."

"So why didn't you send me or Sherlock with him? Or at least some security. Or did you send someone with him that I don't know about? Was it the cab driver?"

"I suspect that will be me," James said, putting it all together and holding out his hand. "Ticket please." At least it would be him if he'd passed whatever ridiculous test this had been.

Mycroft observed him for a moment, and then withdrew an envelope from his inner breast pocket and placed it in James' hand. "Meet him. Do not reveal that you know his identity. Help him finish his mission. Then decide if he is who you want. If he is not, leave him alone."

"You're all barking mad," James said as his fingers closed around the envelope. "And if he gets hurt, I will find you both," he said, his cold eyes on Sherlock and Mycroft.

"And I'll lead him right to you," John told the two brothers sternly. "If you had to play matchmaker, wouldn't a nice dinner out have been sufficient?"

"Where would be the fun in that?" Sherlock asked, grabbing John's hand and reeling him in, planting a kiss on his lips. "After all, we fell in love over a dead body."

Determined to find John later and have a long talk with him about this very crazy family, James stalked back to the car. "Airport, as quickly as you can," and he got in, ignoring Anthea's dark look. He assumed Mycroft gave his permission as Anthea got out and the car rapidly turned around and headed out of the car park.

During the drive, James opened the envelope to find a ticket for a flight in an hour and fifteen minutes, and he glanced at his watch, hoping there wasn't a traffic jam. There was also a flash drive, which he plugged into the computer conveniently available in the back seat, which told him the elements of Willoughby's mission. 

Once done, he understood why John had been so angry about it. This wasn't a job for an amateur. Something Mycroft obviously knew, therefore counting on James going to the rescue of his little brother. So now James had to figure out how to handle the mission, as well as convince Willoughby that he should be allowed to help, all without giving himself away. On the other hand, he hadn't agreed to any of Mycroft's rules, and he was damned if he'd risk Willoughby by playing Mycroft's games.

He pulled out his phone and called M.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the fact that there had been traffic, they had held the plane for him. M, and possibly Mycroft, had made that arrangement, so the plane was still sitting on the tarmac when James arrived, and he was whisked through security with no hassle, given he was carrying. M promised the seat next to Willoughby would be empty for him and made him promise to bring the man to MI6 when they returned.

James would much rather jump to M's rules than Mycroft's, even though M had made it clear that Mycroft was a man to be feared, someone who wielded enormous power behind the throne.

James would deal with that later, after he brought Willoughby home safe and sound. He arrived at his gate where a lone gate attendant waited for him. As soon as he was through the door it slammed shut behind him and he moved quickly down the walkway. Again, once on the plane, the door was shut and secured behind him, and announcements were already underway to prepare for departure.

He showed his ticket and was ushered into first class. He slid into his seat where he had the supreme pleasure of being able to observe his seat mate who was currently fast asleep. He had thick black hair that James wanted to grab hold of and he had an arousing vision of Willoughby on his knees, James' fingers in his hair, as he sucked on James' cock. 

James shifted in his seat, amused how a five second look at this man had turned him on so thoroughly. He still had his glasses on, thick black frames which failed to hide his full eyelashes. His skin was soft, a young man's skin, but he had a five o'clock shadow around his cheeks and jaw and lips. Bond felt an intense urge to kiss him.

As if awakened by his intent study, Willoughby's eyes opened. They were blue, a sort of hazel blue, and they stared at him through a drug-hazed gaze. "James?" he said, as if doubting his own reality.

"Hello, Willoughby," James said.

Willoughby blinked at him. "Why…how…" He blinked again and then scowled. "I hate flying. It always makes me an idiot."

James let out a quick laugh. "So I've heard. Bad experience?"

"No. I just know everything that can go wrong, and if it does, we're so far up." He didn't stop staring, and James loved it. He fucking loved it. He loved this man's obsessive, stalkerish ways. He'd become quite attached to those ways.

A very attractive flight attendant came down the aisle and James couldn't be bothered to do more than glance at her. Then his eyes were back on Willoughby. There was an announcement for imminent departure and Willoughby's eyes reflected his panic at the thought.

James had never been as grateful for the newer first class cabins that allowed much more privacy. He laced his fingers through Willoughby's and said, "It'll be fine. I won't let anything happen to you."

That got a small grin. "It seems as if you're the one in need of rescuing more than I."

James grinned back at him. "But I know the perfect distraction for you." The plane began to speed down the runway, and Willoughby's fingers were doing their best to crush his.

"You do?" Willoughby pleaded. "This might be a good time."

James kissed him. 

Willoughby gasped into his mouth, but drug addled or not, he didn't hesitate long. His arms came up around James' neck and he gave himself up to James, simply surrendered into his arms, and James came quietly unglued.

People just didn't do that. They didn't just give themselves away, not without wanting something, needing something, expecting something. And maybe Willoughby wanted him, but he'd allowed himself to be removed from James' life last night, with every expectation that they'd never meet. He hadn't staged this, hadn't come on to James, had simply been sitting there, and now he was pliant against James' body, kissing him, allowing himself to be kissed, for James to open his mouth with his tongue, to keep making these animal noises of pleasure that had James' cock hard and primed for sex.

Sex that would not be happening. And not just because they were on a plane, and not just because Willoughby was on drugs, and not just because Willoughby was a virgin who didn't need his first time to be on a plane where anyone could walk by, or crammed into an airplane bathroom. 

Sex would not be happening because Willoughby deserved to be romanced, to be made as much of as he had made of James. To be wooed and adored, and presented with gifts that suited him to a tee, and then to be surrounded by rose petals and candlelight and champagne as James tumbled him into bed.

James slowly pulled back from the kiss, dropping lighter kisses onto Willoughby's nose and cheeks and eyelids and neck, running his fingers through his thick black hair, feeling Willoughby's slight but wiry-strong body under his hands. "Shh," he said, kissing his temple. "I've got you."

"Mmm," Willoughby said, snuggling in, allowing himself to be gentled, but happy to stay close. "S' wonderful. I love this dream."

James laughed silently, looking forward to Willoughby's response when he woke up.

*****

James watched as Willoughby slowly awakened. A hand rose to touch his arm, fingers working up and down his forearm, like a blind man trying to make sense of something he was feeling. 

"Good morning," James said in Willoughby's ear. "We've landed. Delhi awaits."

Willoughby sat straight up and gawked at James. "James?"

"In the flesh," James said, holding his arms apart, demonstrating his presence.

Willoughby touched his lips, then his nose, then his lips again. "I don't understand. Did you…did we…?"

"Yes and yes, and we need to go now." James stood and retrieved his jacket from the flight attendant. At some point during the flight, while Willoughby slept on, James had lost his jacket to make himself more comfortable and eaten dinner. He'd saved his apple. "Here."

"Ah, lovely," Willoughby said, biting into it. He managed to stand, although he was a little wobbly. "I hate to fly."

"You slept through most of it." This time James touched Willoughby's lips with a brief caress of his thumb and grinned, "And we were busy doing other things as we took off."

Willoughby's face blushed a lovely pink. In defense, he straightened his cardigan with a few sharp movements and reached up to touch his tie to make sure it was still in place. James handed him the scrap of fabric. "I took it off."

"You did?" Willoughby said nervously, taking the tie from James.

"I did." He pulled the last remaining bag down, got Willoughby's nod that it was his, and then gestured for Willoughby to exit the seat, following behind him, keeping him going the correct way. He reminded himself to punch Mycroft as soon as they got back to London for sending his brother out in this condition. He could fall prey to anyone right now if he was alone.

On the other hand, he had firsthand knowledge of how much Mycroft cared, in his own very crazy and scary way. There was no doubt someone on this plane was meant to secure Willoughby as soon as they landed. Mycroft didn't seem the sort to leave any loose ends. In fact, once off the plane, he noticed a man watching them; he gave James a nod and then headed off, throwing his bag over his shoulder and revealing a holstered weapon.

Feeling a little less like punching Mycroft, or at least deciding he'd pull his punch a little if he did, James continued to direct Willoughby, using light touches to his side, and Willoughby blindly followed his directions, only occasionally stumbling as he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off of James.

James was preening. He knew he was handsome and magnetic, and it took little, even as he got older, to get people's attention, but he'd never been the recipient of such flagrant adoration, let alone from someone who knew him, and knew what he did for a living, and the darkness that often surrounded him. There was nothing to explain, no lies to tell, no security clearances to work around. Due to Mycroft, James suspected that Willoughby, Sherlock, and probably John, had as high a security clearance as James did. And if not, Willoughby would soon have it as the new quartermaster.

"Where's your bag?" Willoughby asked, as if just noticing. 

"I don't have one. Your brother Mycroft kidnapped me and handed me a ticket and here I am."

"Mycroft?" Willoughby asked, eyes wide in surprise, mouth open as well, and James was having a hard time tearing his gaze away from Willoughby's lips. "He knows you're here?"

"He does."

"Are you to keep me alive?" Willoughby asked, this time with some good humor.

"That I am."

"Why does the thought of that terrify me?" Willoughby quipped, throwing his apple core away. "Lord, it's hot." He unbuttoned his cardigan and stripped it off, stuffing it in his bag. Then he rolled up his sleeves to just below his elbows. Now James couldn't stop staring at his forearms.

"Right this way," the man with the gun from the jetway said, a sweep of his arm revealing a black sedan waiting for them.

Willoughby frowned. "Code word?"

James grinned at Willoughby, but waited for the man to answer.

"Marianne Dashwood," he said.

"Bastard," Willoughby fumed. "Very well. Lead on."

"Marianne Dashwood?"

"A character from a book," Willoughby answered evasively.

"A book with a dashing Mr. Willoughby in it?" James suggested, still grinning. He'd spent part of the flight tracking down a Willoughby in a Jane Austen book. Best to be forewarned.

"Oh my God," Willoughby said, stalking away from James and getting into the back seat. James ducked in after him and sat down, squeezing close to him.

Willoughby tried to look annoyed, but too much of him was still gazing, enraptured, at James. "Are you really here?" he whispered.

"I am really here, although to be fair, I think that should be my question." After all, Willoughby had known who he was. "You've led me a merry dance for months."

Willoughby didn't seem to have a response to that and he looked away, but his gaze kept returning to James. Finally he said, "Mycroft really kidnapped you?"

"He really did. He and your other brother."

That got a raised eyebrow. "Sherlock?"

"And John," James said, wanting to see the response.

"Never John," Willoughby said with a smug smile. "Now I know you're lying to me. John's the only sane one in the bunch. He's quite lovely and it's a mystery why he seems to love Sherlock so. But he does, so that's his happy ending and I'm glad for him."

"Do you like happy endings, then?" James asked him, seeing a little bit of what Mycroft worried about so much. Willoughby, despite his ability to kill with a push of a button, was very young and inexperienced, and James could take such advantage of him and leave him in pieces by the time he was done. The trick was in discovering how to woo a virgin who was too smart for his own good. 

"Of course. Who wouldn't? It's not as if we go around hoping for unhappy endings, is it?"

"Happy endings don't happen very often," James said. "Ones that last, at any rate."

"True, but there's no point…Well, never mind. I suppose you must think I’m foolish." He shook his head and looked out the window.

"Actually," James said, putting his arm around Willoughby and pulling him close, "I think you're quite wonderful."

"Really?" Willoughby asked, eyes wide underneath his glasses but then he smiled deprecatingly. "I'm afraid I’m not as sophisticated as your usual conquests. Am I falling too easily for your charms? Should I be acting hard to get?"

"No," James said, seeing the need for several conversations ahead of them, but not now. "I don't want you to be anything you're not."

He wasn't sure Willoughby bought it. While he was young and inexperienced, he wasn't an idiot, and Mycroft and Sherlock had clearly tried to warn him of the evils of men in general, and James Bond in particular. And James hadn't forgotten Mycroft's advice, despite the fact that he had already disregarded most of it. He shouldn't be making promises yet; he barely knew the man.

And, yes, he was completely lying and, concernedly, very ready to start making promises. 

*****

Willoughby insisted on separate rooms, but did agree to adjoining ones. While he knew he wouldn't be able to resist James Bond if he wanted him in his bed, for the sake of his pride he didn't want to appear to have the backbone of soggy tissue paper. It was already late, and all Willoughby wanted to do was eat and go to bed. Tomorrow would be a busy day.

He laid his bag on the sofa, admiring the large room Mycroft had secured for him. As his eyes swept over the room he pulled out his surveillance monitor and began to run it over the walls and furniture. When James knocked on his side of the joint door, Willoughby unlocked his side, and after he was done with his room, he went through the same exercise in James' side. 

When he walked back into his room and deposited the gadget back in his bag, James said, "Safe to talk?"

"Yes," Willoughby said, grabbing the room service menu. "Shall we eat?"

"Yes, but not here," James said, pulling the menu from his hands. "I’m in the mood to see Delhi with you on my arm."

"Everyone will be madly jealous of me," Willoughby managed to tease, knowing which of them caught everyone's eyes.

James shook his head, and this time captured a hand and pulled him into his arms. "Don't sell yourself short," he said before kissing Willoughby so thoroughly he had to grasp James' shoulders to stay standing. It was so very odd to be kissing the man Willoughby had been fixated on for such a long time. He had never expected this to happen and it was like his mental hard drive had a virus, making it difficult to retrieve any usable files.

When James pulled back, Willoughby stared at him and then said, "I still don't understand why you're here. I don't understand why Mycroft sent you to me when he did his best to convince me to stay away from you. I don't understand why you're kissing me and what you hope to get out of it. None of this makes sense."

"That makes two of us, then," James said. "Except the kissing part. That I understand completely." He ran his thumb again over Willoughby's lips.

Starting to get annoyed, Willoughby took a step back. "I do…I do think about you a lot." He swallowed. "I know it's a character flaw how obsessed I get, but there it is. I do and I am. But I'd rather not, I think, do the kissing, and more, if that's all I get. I mean I do want it, because you're who you are, and I have, as I said, thought about it, but I know myself, and I really can't afford to get any crazier than I already am, just ask Sherlock about the chopsticks, and I think if I get more of you, I'll just want more of you, and then, well, there we'll be, with me obsessing more than is safe for either of us."

James' eyebrows rose and his lips pursed.

Willoughby found himself distracted by the man's lips.

"So you'd turn me down?" James asked. "Is this what you're doing? Turning me down? And don't think I don't want to hear the chopsticks story."

Willoughby sank to the couch and covered his face with his hands. "Of course not. It's me saying I should be turning you down. It's me pretending I'm turning you down, but of course I won't be able to turn you down if you keep kissing me. Why did Mycroft send you? I don't understand. He made so much sense last night, and this makes no sense to me at all."

"I wasn't supposed to tell you I knew who you were," James said, crouching in front of Willoughby and taking his hands from his face. "This was supposed to be an opportunity for us to get to know each other with no pressure."

"You kissed me!" Willoughby complained. "That's an inordinate amount of pressure."

"I see that now," James said, but he was grinning. "It's quite a turn-on to be wanted so much, you know."

Willoughby let out a groan and covered up his face again. "You kiss everyone. How am I supposed to know it's any different from what you've done a thousand times before?" He peeked at James through his fingers. "Perhaps we should just be friends. That would be better anyway, right? I can keep helping you, and you can keep sleeping with other people without it making me crazy."

"I think it was already making you crazy," James pointed out. "In fact, you abandoned me, if I remember correctly."

"I didn't want to listen to you have sex with someone else who wasn't me," Willoughby snapped at him.

"I didn't have sex with her," James told him. "I haven't had sex with anyone since that night."

"What?"

"I didn't have sex with her."

"You didn't?" Willoughby asked, confused.

"No." He put his hands on Willoughby's knees. "Once you hung up I realized what I really wanted was you. And having you listen in, and pretending that my groans were because you were touching me, and hoping you might make some noises of your own in my ear, maybe even touch yourself, that's what I wanted."

Willoughby stared at him in horror. "You are a truly evil man." He brushed off James' hands and stood. "And now that I've seen how evil you are, it will be easier to resist you. Thanks for that." He was lying, of course. If James decided to drag him to bed, Willoughby would go all too willingly.

James had the temerity to laugh at him. "Let's eat."


	4. Chapter 4

After dinner, James lay in bed watching Willoughby get Alec out of a scrape. It was fascinating to watch it firsthand, watch the man's fingers fly over the keyboard, as the screens on the two laptops switched every second from maps to blueprints to camera shots to Google earth, to screens with nothing but code on it. Willoughby never lost track of what he needed to aid Alec, and he never lost his composure even when Alec was racing through a hail of bullets.

He kept Alec on track, much as he did James when he was out in the field, and he kept him moving where he needed to go to complete his mission and then to safety.

The only difference this time was that instead of Willoughby doing it in secret, Tanner had called James just as they had reached Willoughby's hotel door when they were returning from dinner and, after hearing what the problem was, James had handed him his phone saying, "Alec needs your help."

Willoughby had given him a startled look, but had taken the phone, and from that point on he hadn't given James the time of day, the shy entertaining young man from dinner metamorphosing into this terrifyingly talented computer genius who was able to hobble James' and his laptop, along with some extra equipment in his bag, to create a control center equal to that of MI6.

James was tempted to see if there were any clothes in that bag. All he'd seen come out of it was equipment.

Meanwhile, he was being ignored, but James didn't mind it at all. It was a good reminder to see this part of Willoughby. The other part was alluring and adorable, but this was riveting. Competence had always been a turn on for James and there was no one in the world better at this than Willoughby. It was taking some control to stay in bed and not wrap his arms around the man and drag him into bed and ravish him.

Competence and innocence. It was a potent package. The innocence would mature into something different, of course, especially if he became quartermaster, a position of power and responsibility. And the sexual innocence would also grow into something riper and just as delicious if James had anything to say about it. Willoughby would be someone completely different in a year from now, but it would be fun to watch it happen, to help it happen.

"Here," Willoughby said, interrupting his thoughts and handing James his phone. "He wants to talk to you."

"Hello, Alec," James said, grinning into the phone, even though he knew Alec couldn't see him. "Glad to see you're still in one piece."

"Are you actually with him?"

"I am."

"What does he look like? Is he in his fifties and fat and balding?"

James snorted. "More like twenty-three and gorgeous." Willoughby rolled his eyes and started to close windows. James guessed he'd leave the setup intact in case someone else required his services. 

"Tell me why you deserve him again?"

In all seriousness, James said, "I don't."

Alec was quiet on his end of the phone. "I'm looking forward to meeting him. Will I meet him?"

"Yes. I'm to bring him back when we're done here."

That got a look from Willoughby, who said, "And do I have a choice in this?"

James ignored him. "I've got to go," he told Alec.

"Be careful of him," Alec counseled him. "If he's that young, he doesn't stand a chance against you."

"I'm well aware of that," James said. "It's presenting a new and interesting challenge for me."

That got a laugh. "I bet you'd thought you'd never deal with that again, did you, you old jaded bastard."

"No, I can't say I did. But then there's no one quite like him."

"Does he have a name yet?"

"He does, but I suspect when you see him next, you can call him Q." James hung up and tossed the phone to the bed beside him. 

Willoughby leaned against the back of the sofa. "I know I'm young, but I could have been quartermaster for a while, you know. Mycroft's been asking me to do it since I was twenty-one."

"Why didn't you? And where have you been working all this time?"

"In a cubicle in the basement," Willoughby said. "I liked the anonymity. I'll have none of that as Q."

"That's true. But you'll be saving lives."

"I was already saving lives. Yours, specifically. Then Alec's, because he was important to you."

"Would you have done any of this if you hadn't been obsessed with me?"

Willoughby looked away briefly, as if embarrassed, but then he turned back, chin up in defiance. "I'd like to think so. I was already listening in to missions, and I'd occasionally send new intel through proper channels." Without a modicum of modesty, he shrugged, and said, "I really am good at this."

"I know you are," James said. "You're astonishingly good at it. I can see why Mycroft wanted you somewhere you could do the most good. You've seen what we have to deal with, how it's put us in danger. Could you really turn your back on it, on us, when you could drag us all kicking and screaming into the next century? You'd revolutionize the entire agency. Other agencies would be begging M for your time and energy."

Willoughby sighed and moved to sit on the bed, crossing his legs underneath him. "I'll never get my life back."

"Not to be blunt, but what do you do with your life that you think you'll lose? It seems as if this is what you did with whatever extra time you had. Am I wrong? Is there anything you enjoy more than this?" James gestured at the computer set up.

"Not really. You, maybe. Not that I want you to be my price for taking the throne, so to speak. That's not what I meant."

"I know it isn't. I live for my job, too," James said. "And just to play dirty, I'll be safer with you at the helm, whether it's you directly, or people that you've trained."

Willoughby scowled at him. "And the kissing?"

"That's yours, too, if you want, but any more than that will have to wait until we get back."

"Why?" Willoughby sounded gratifyingly disappointed by that.

"Because, and I'm sorry if this makes you sound like a blushing virgin, you're not ready for it, and I'll make a hash of it, because I care about you. And the last thing I want is to add that to the mix as you decide what you want to do about the job. So, assuming you're willing, we'll kiss and sleep together, and I mean sleep even if I can't believe I'm saying it, and then tomorrow we'll take care of business and go home. I'll take you to meet with M and Tanner, and then you'll take me to officially meet Mycroft so he can see for himself that I brought you home in one piece, and we'll take it from there."

"If I'm Q I won't be able to wreak revenge on your behalf anymore," Willoughby said sadly. "I quite enjoyed that part."

"You really are a bloodthirsty piece of work, aren't you?" Another intricate piece of the Willoughby picture. 

Willoughby shrugged. "I'm good at that, too. Although I suppose Mycroft would cover for me if I indulged every now and then. Most of the people you fall foul of are on his target list."

James smiled at him. "See? You'll have a license to kill, just like me. Everyone wins."

Willoughby leaned toward him and ran his fingers over the creases around James' eyes. 

"Pointing out how much older than you I am?" James said, forcing himself not to pull away.

"No," Willoughby said. "I love these lines on your face. I love everything about your face. I love everything about you. I don't think you quite understand how completely, and irrevocably, mad I am about you. You should be quite terrified about it, and if you were sane at all, you'd run screaming from me."

"I love danger," James said, cupping Willoughby's head in his hands and kissing him roughly. "I love it. I thrive on it."

Laughing now, Willoughby pushed James down on the bed. "Are you sure we can't have sex now? I really think I'm ready."

James groaned. "You may be, but I'm not. First time isn't going to be in a hotel room the night before a mission. Besides, I want to bring you back to your brother in the same shape I took you."

Willoughby scoffed. "I thought you thrived on danger. Don't tell me my big brother scares you."

"I just think I should get on his good side if I'm going to court you. It's called strategy, my dear, not fear. Strategy."

"I call it fear," Willoughby said blithely. "You've quite dashed all my notions of you."

James was about to trounce him in a wrestling match when James' phone rang. "Shit. This is what it's going to be like, isn't it? Never a moment alone. You'll have to set limits or I'll get depressed."

"It's your phone ringing," Willoughby protested.

"I'm sure it's for you." He answered. "Bond."

"Your mission's been pushed up to tonight," Mycroft said. "I'm sending new data to Willoughby. Don't let him get hurt. He can be headstrong."

"I wonder where he gets that from?" James said.

"I can't imagine what you mean," Mycroft said, and hung up.

"Your brother," James said, "is a piece of work."

"Which one?"

"Mycroft, but I suspect the other one is too. He's sending you data. We'll be heading out tonight."

Willoughby yawned. "Lovely." He pulled up the new information Mycroft had sent them, and James sat next to him. It was a satellite feed.

"That's our target," James pointed out. There was more activity than expected, several lorries in the parking lot, and multiple moving spots of infrared indicating people milling around.

"Ah," Willoughby said after studying it for a moment.

"Ah, indeed," James said. "It looks like they're moving out tonight. If we wait until tomorrow, I'm guessing it will be an empty warehouse. Why do you suppose they changed their plans?"

"Someone on Mycroft's staff might have accidentally tipped them off. Or these people might have someone like me who watches for shifts in the digital wind."

"They might have someone who wishes they were you," James corrected him. "And Mycroft is out of his mind if he thinks I'm taking you into a hot zone like that. People will be shooting at us."

"And he will be expecting for you to shoot back," Willoughby said pragmatically. "You often take on targets like this on your own. Now you'll have me with you, so it should be even easier."

James stared at him. "You're going to be nothing but trouble, aren't you?"

"It's my middle name," Willoughby teased with an excited grin.

"You're young enough to think this is all just a lark," James argued. "It's not. You've seen how often we get hurt during missions like this."

"Mycroft obviously thinks the information we can access is important enough to risk me."

"I don't believe it. This is another sort of crazy test of his, and if I get you killed I lose. It's like saying you can tell a woman is a witch when you throw her in the water and she floats. This is a lose-lose proposition."

"Now I absolutely know you were lying when you said you thrived on danger. James, you're becoming quite a disappointment." Willoughby's eyes were twinkling with mischief as he took apart his computer set up and put his laptop and cords into his bag. "We need to go. He'll be very disappointed if we're late."

"He'll be disappointed?" James growled. "I'm going to punch him in the face when I see him next, unless we're both dead, in which case I hope he chokes on his guilt." He got off the bed, frustration pooling inside him. He hated being responsible for civilians on missions, because for as many as he'd saved, there'd been an equal number he hadn't. There were too many things you couldn't account for.

Willoughby handed him his coat. "Are you coming?"

"And if I said I wasn't?"

"I'd go without you."

"I could knock you out, truss you up, and drop you off at MI6." James was seriously considering it.

Willoughby put his hand on James' chest. "I'm not as helpless as I look. I can help."

James growled at the room at large. "If I say it's time to run, it's time to run, no questions asked."

"No questions asked," Willoughby agreed.

"You are a rotten liar." He grabbed Willoughby's bag, grabbed his arm, and dragged him from the room.

*****

James had never had so much trouble concentrating on a job in his life. He was getting it done; he was too good at what he did to allow a distraction to get in his way, but it was taking more energy than usual.

The problem was Willoughby. Of course, the problem was Willoughby. 

But not for the reasons James would have thought. They'd gotten inside the building with a minimum of fuss; James had only had to kill three people, Willoughby distastefully walking around their bodies. The mission report had stated that property was being moved which, upon closer examination, was revealed as a startling array of weapons. He now had two choices: either blow it all to kingdom come, which were Mycroft's orders, or disregard those orders and bring in back-up to secure the site.

Willoughby had been told to hack the system and then blow it up, and he wanted to stick with that plan.

"Why?" James hissed at him. He was leaning the other way.

"I don't know. I don't ask. But I trust that Mycroft has his reasons. Maybe these weapons just need to disappear. Maybe they can be traced and will end up causing more trouble if they leave this area. I don't know."

"Can you find out?"

"Find out everything Mycroft knows?" Willoughby protested. "He's the bloody government, James. He knows everything." He patted James on the thigh as if to settle his nerves. "But don't worry. We can blow it up remotely. We'll be miles away."

The man was a menace.

James got Willoughby to his destination, killing two more people. Willoughby went immediately to work, hooking up his laptop, plugging in wires and unplugging others, his fingers dancing over the keyboard and occasionally over the machinery in the room. James was willing to concede he would not have been able to do this, even being coached by Willoughby over the phone. Mycroft hadn't been kidding about that.

But that wasn't what was distracting him. More men started shooting at them and James moved to stand in front of Willoughby, making sure they'd get to him over his dead body. James took down one man but ended up getting his gun shot out of his hand by the next. He jumped the man and was working on punching the shit out of him when another man was suddenly standing in the doorway, his gun aimed at James, just waiting for an opening.

Willoughby scowled, reached into his bag, grabbed a gun, and shot the man between the eyes. "Honestly, I'm tired of the interruptions." And then he turned around, returned the gun to his bag, and went back to work on the computers.

No, no, first he grabbed a battery and attached a couple of wires to it, and after James had subdued the man he'd been fighting with, leaving him unconscious on the floor, Willoughby had jabbed his gizmo into the man's side and tasered him.

"Did you just make a taser?" James asked, incredulous.

"I didn't want him waking up and bothering me," Willoughby said with a frown at the nearly dead man at his feet. Without another word, he went back to his computer.

James gaped at the back of his head, thoroughly distracted. Who the hell was this man? "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

"My mother," was the half-answer shot off over Willoughby's shoulder.

The man was perfect for him. It was like someone had made him for James. Rolled him out of clay to a list of exacting specifications. James fucking adored him. Wanted him. Planned to keep him. Put a tattoo on his body saying Property of James Bond. Granted, he came with a very, very odd family, including a mother who insisted her children know how to use firearms, and a brother who used a deadly mission as a matchmaking technique and another brother who was probably as crazy as a loon as well, but no relationship was perfect.

Instincts had him turning his head in time to shoot someone who was sneaking up on them. "We really should leave soon," James mentioned offhandedly. 

"Almost done," Willoughby said, pushing a series of keys, creating several codes across the screen. "And there. I can set off the explosives with my laptop as soon as we're away." In moments, all his equipment was back in the bag and he was standing impatiently over James, who was crouched on the floor. "Can we go?"

It was taking more control than James had to not knock Willoughby down and take him right here in this room. It was a heady feeling to know that Willoughby would do anything to keep him safe. And that he had the skills to carry that out. He'd blow up villages, engineer the death of men out to kill him, shoot a man in cold blood who was about to shoot him, and kiss him like there was no tomorrow.

"You're bleeding," Willoughby said, as if just noticing. "What happened?"

James glanced down at his hand and saw that he was bleeding, but it wasn't serious. He guessed his gun had jerked in his hand with sufficient force to cut him. Speaking of his gun, James scooped it up off the floor and checked it over, deciding it was still in working condition. He put a new magazine in and said, "Let's go." Then, he added, "Don't you want to have your gun out?"

"Why?" Willoughby asked, sounding honestly confused. "I have you."

"You used it before."

"You were busy. You're not busy now."

James shook his head, smirking. This man. "Then go." James headed out of the room first, surprising two men who he quickly shot. "I don't think much of their security," James noted. Maybe bullets being fired were a part of the general ambient noise level.

"I discovered their plan, by the way," Willoughby said. "These are weapons designed to misfire, and they were heading to our troops. This isn't the first shipment. I found the manifest of all the other shipments so we'll be able to track them all down and remove them. "

Mycroft had been right then. Good to know. "Then let's blow this place sky high."

And that's what they did once they were far enough away to be safe. They sat on the ground and then Willoughby opened up his laptop, pushed a few buttons, and they watched the resulting fireworks like a couple of tourists on holiday. "Nice," James said.

"I do love an explosion," Willoughby said happily.

"How did your parents survive the three of you?" James asked.

"Most of our experimentation was closely watched over by military nannies."

"You're not even kidding, are you?" James said.

"No. But once a year, on my birthday, I got to explode whatever I wanted, as long as it wasn't the house, or one of my brothers. It was lovely."

James started laughing, really laughing, a laugh out loud, falling on his back, grabbing his stomach, tears coming out of his eyes laughing. It was the first time he'd done that in decades, if ever. He thought to himself: I am going to marry this man. Willoughby just grinned at him as he slowly calmed down, small riffs of laughter still escaping him. That was when his phone rang. James just handed it to Willoughby. "It's Mycroft."

"How can you tell?" Willoughby asked surprised.

"There's something foreboding about the ring tone."

Willoughby snickered as he answered the phone.

*****

The first thing M said when James arrived with Willoughby was, "You can go, 007, I'd like to speak with Mr. Holmes alone."

Willoughby sent him a look of wide-eyed panic, and James sat down on the couch in M's office, and said, "Just pretend I'm not here." He gave M a bland smile and even picked up a magazine and opened it.

"Bond," M said, a hint of temper in his voice.

"Please," Willoughby said, "I'd really rather he stay. If you don't mind."

M took a moment to stare at the two of them, as if he could ascertain what was going on between them, but James didn't think he would see anything more than a young computer expert with a bit of a crush on an MI6 agent; after all, they hadn't even had sex yet. However, James was sure he'd get the "don't play with employees we can't afford to lose" speech as soon as M had him alone.

The office door opened and M was about to berate whoever was entering without permission, but stopped abruptly when Mycroft Holmes walked in as if he owned the place. For all James knew, he did.

"Mycroft," Willoughby said, smiling.

"Willoughby," Mycroft returned. "I'm pleased to see you're still in one piece." Mycroft shot James a look. "And you, Mr. Bond."

"James, please, Mycroft," James said, standing, deciding there was nothing to be lost in playing the respect game, even if he still half wanted to punch the man. The malicious glee in Mycroft's eyes told him that he was quite aware of it, the cheeky bastard.

"What can I do for you?" M asked Mycroft, glancing between the three men in his office.

"I'm sure you know by now that Willoughby is your hacker," Mycroft announced, "and that he is my brother."

"James," M said, as James made as if to sit down again, "that will be all."

"I'd prefer he stay," Mycroft stated loftily. "After all, he's quite key to Willoughby's easy settlement here, is he not? Surely someone as young as Willoughby taking on a job of such responsibility will be aided by the championship and mentoring of someone of Mr. Bond's skill and reputation."

James had to admire the man. In one sentence he'd essentially said that he wanted Willoughby to be quartermaster, that both his brother and James were under his protection, and that James was to help train him. 

"He is young," M said, trying to regain control. "I thought to try him in a lesser position first and see how he does."

Mycroft smiled benevolently at him, which was one of the more frightening things James had seen.

"You've seen what he's capable of in a lesser position," Mycroft purred. "It's so easy to get bored when not being challenged."

James had to bite back an incredulous laugh. Cheeky indeed, as if it were M's inability to provide sufficiently challenging work conditions that led to Willoughby playing havoc with MI6. He glanced at M, saw that he knew he was being played and was furiously looking for a convenient loophole. While it would be very interesting to see M have to kowtow to anyone, James was sure that M wished very much that his audience would go away. James could help with that. "Perhaps I'll take Willoughby to lunch while you two talk?"

"That might be best," Mycroft said before M could. "Willoughby?"

"Hm mm?" Willoughby said distractedly. He was enraptured by the large interactive maps M had up in his office showing where all the agents were currently on missions. 

Mycroft just shot James a look, after lifting his eyes toward heaven as if for strength. James went to Willoughby and took his elbow. "Let's go get some lunch."

"Mycroft?" Willoughby asked, even as he sent James a warm smile and didn't dislodge his hand on his elbow. 

Mycroft moved to his side. "Yes?"

Willoughby pointed to three spots on the map, two in southeast Asia and one in India. "Promise me Moriarty is dead."

"I promise you he is very dead," Mycroft said, although James could see that all his attention was now on the map and not on the situation in the room. 

"A little coincidental, though, don't you think?" Willoughby said.

"Very. Moran?"

"He's the only one we missed. Sherlock still sulks about it. This might make his day."

Mycroft leaned in toward Willoughby and only the fact that James was still at his elbow enabled him to hear. "Or we could make M's day. The agents in those areas could use the intelligence we have at our disposal."

Willoughby looked at James as if seeing him in those agents in foreign countries with only half the information they really needed. He nodded. "You'll take care of it while I have lunch?" Then he frowned, "And don't think we won't have words about that, that you think me unable to negotiate for myself."

"You are unable to negotiate for yourself," Mycroft told him, with a significant glance at James, as if telling him that Mycroft would, henceforth, hold James responsible for any negative outcomes due to poor negotiating.

"I am not," Willoughby stated firmly.

Mycroft ducked his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose, but James could see he was hiding an affectionate smile, something he guessed rarely crossed the man's face. "Willoughby. When last you applied for a position here, you ended up in a basic tech position, which provided you with much too much time on your hands, giving you the time and wherewithal to develop your latest obsession."

Willoughby smiled at James and then back at Mycroft. "And that ended fine, don’t you think?"

James couldn't help but grin back. He'd never realized how susceptible he could be to the right sort of charm.

"Allow me to do this for you," Mycroft said.

Willoughby gave him a suspicious, narrow-eyed stare. "And for you, I suspect."

"Of course," Mycroft said, turning back to M and dismissing James and Willoughby with his body language. "I believe I have some information that might be of use."

James took that as his cue to leave the premises and let the political posturing carry on without him. He pulled on Willoughby and dragged him out of the office.

*****

They went back to Willoughby's place because James' thought Willoughby would be more comfortable there, even if it was a security nightmare. It might have been fine for Willoughby before, but as quartermaster the security would have to be upgraded. It was huge, almost cavernous, especially as there was almost no furniture, just banks of computers with office chairs. There wasn't even a telly.

"How can you not have a telly?" Bond asked him.

Willoughby gestured at the huge monitor associated with one of the computers, even as he headed for the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. 

James considered the monitor and decided what they didn't have was a couch. He hoped to God that Willoughby had a bed. He followed him into the kitchen and hooked his chin on the man's shoulder as he considered what was in the refrigerator. It wasn't much better than the living room, except its embarrassment of riches was cans of Red Bull. Cans and cans of Red Bull. "How have you survived so long?" James asked him.

Willoughby stared as well, looking perplexed, as if he was wondering the same thing. "I think I eat out a lot."

"Don't you know?" James asked. No wonder Mycroft felt the need to watch over his brother.

"Somehow food is just always there, or if I get hungry, I go and get it," Willoughby said reasonably.

"Do you have a bedroom?" James queried.

Willoughby shot him a hopeful look. "Are you going to ravish me now?"

James actually spluttered. Thank God Alec was nowhere around. "No, there will be no ravishing. Not yet."

Frowning, Willoughby shut the refrigerator door. "I hardly think it's fair to be considered a one-night-stand and not even get one night out of it."

"You are not a one-night-stand," James protested.

"That much is eminently clear," Willoughby said in dismay. "I thought you liked kissing me."

"Stop right now," James said, growing dizzy with how fast Willoughby was running in the wrong direction. "I loved kissing you, I love you. And after I appropriately woo you, I am going to marry you, and somewhere in all of that, there will be ravishing. I promise."

Willoughby stared at him in stupefaction. He blinked a few times, his mouth open, speechless.

James did his best not to focus on Willoughby's mouth. On the other hand, he suspected there would be few times he actually made the man stop talking, so he was going to enjoy this for as long as he could. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest.

Willoughby cleared his throat and blinked a few more times. "Did you, um, did you just really say that?"

"Say what?" James asked innocently, then he relented, not sure what Willoughby would do if he thought James was playing him. "The part about loving you and marrying you? Yes, I did." 

He cleared his throat again. "Really?"

"Really," James said, reaching out and pulling Willoughby in, cupping his face in his hands and kissing him tenderly. 

"It's just that I never thought," Willoughby said, tucking his face against James' shoulder. "I never thought I'd get someone for my own. Like John for Sherlock. I never thought I would."

If James had to be in a class of two, he was fine with it being him and John Watson as the two men who did their best to control their particular Holmes. Even more reason to call John and go out for a drink. He held Willoughby tightly, letting him work things out in his head and heart, allowing him to stay hidden against James. After all, he knew Willoughby would allow him to do the same when things got the type of overwhelming that even knocked a double-0 for a loop.

Finally, Willoughby said, "And you're sure ravishing can't happen sooner on that timeline?"

Laughing, James pulled away. "Nope."

"Why?"

"Because you don't really believe me, and I need you to. And that's going to take me a little time."

"I believe you," Willoughby protested.

"Do you?"

Willoughby tried to lie, but it was written all over his face. He wanted to believe it, but it was too soon, and everything that he knew of James provided evidence to the contrary. 

And James knew that sex had to wait. It would kill him, but he had spent his entire adult life chasing prey and he knew how to be patient. 

Willoughby pushed away and walked into the living room, empty other than the computer banks, and turned to face James with unsettling miserable eyes. Eyes that were more miserable than the withholding of sex would elicit. "We should probably talk about Mycroft."

"Mycroft?" How the hell did Mycroft come into the conversation?

"You never did tell me when you spoke with Mycroft. You said he kidnapped you?"

"He did. Took me to a carpark where he and your other brother, Sherlock, gave me a onceover and proceeded to play games with me until John Watson showed up."

"John Watson showed up?" Willoughby almost squeaked. "How did he know where they were?"

"Sherlock's phone was GPS enabled."

Willoughby snorted. "I want you to listen very carefully, at which point if you choose to leave and never come back, I will completely understand."

James had no idea what he was talking about, but couldn't imagine anything Willoughby might say that would change his mind.

"All of this, well, maybe not my obsession, but everything else? All engineered by Mycroft. Sherlock and I might be geniuses, and I say that with no modesty because we are, but Mycroft is in a class all his own."

"Explain."

"He knew I was obsessed with you, and he knew I was helping you. From there, he figured out a way to use that to get him exactly what he wanted."

"And that was?"

"Power over MI6."

"How does this give him more power than he already had? M was clearly deferring to him from the very moment Mycroft walked in the door."

"True, but Mycroft's real power base is MI5. He can affect things at MI6, but on an organizational chart, and trust me, you'd never find Mycroft's name on one, M holds a tremendous amount of power. In Mycroft's perfect world, M would be in Mycroft's pocket. The old M never was, and it annoyed Mycroft to no end."

James could believe that. The glorious bitch hadn't bowed down to anyone. 

"This M, Mallory, is a new player. He's been in politics for a long time, but not in this position. Over time, M would have found his sea legs and grown into his power and been as untouchable as the other M."

Now it was James' mouth hanging open. Just for an instant, but still. Mycroft, in using Willoughby's obsession for him, had shown up MI6 as an organization in painful need of some assistance. "Okay, I see your part in it, but what part did I play?"

"He kidnapped you. It's something he does, regularly, in an attempt, which is generally fulfilled, to unsettle his guests. John Watson failed to become unsettled and was thus deemed a fit companion for Sherlock."

"You think I was kidnapped to see if I would be a fit companion for you?"

"I know you were, especially because he brought Sherlock in on it. Mycroft may, in some ways, be able to run circles around all of us, but Sherlock is almost his equal in deducing things. They saw you, and spoke to you, and somehow made the determination that I was important to you."

James recalled his sensation of 'meeting the parents'. Apparently it had been truer than he thought, assuming Willoughby was correct about all of this. "He used John?"

"They both used John. They always use John because he is so dependently loyal and a truly good man. They count on him in ways they don't count on anyone. He came in and presented me as someone in dire straits who needed rescuing. Am I right?"

"Doesn't he mind?" James asked, appalled. "If Mycroft expects to use me that way, he can forget about it."

"He will use you, but he'll use you in a way that is true to who you are. He used you to get close to me, to rescue me, to make you angry with him so you'd be more inclined to be on my side. He uses everyone, James. Everyone. And he used you back in that office, now that you've fallen in line with his wishes, by making it very clear to M that not only is he able to present the perfect quartermaster to MI6, but that I come equipped with my own 007. With all the double-0s and, I'm sure, if I dug deeply enough, that it was Mycroft or one of his minions who tipped off the double-0's that I was the one they needed to work with."

"Part of that was me," James said.

"True, at least with Alec, because I knew he was your friend. But the others were mostly because they asked," Willoughby said.

"So you're saying that somehow Mycroft could tell how I felt about you, knew how you felt about me, and used that to shift power from M to him, and cut M off at the knees before he could, what, grow up a little?" When he said it like that, it was suddenly crystal clear that that was exactly what Mycroft had done.

"And I'm sure," Willoughby said sadly, "that if you looked up the bills coming before Parliament this year, that gay marriage is among them, real marriage, not just a civil partnership, and he has every intention of us marrying, even further cementing his place of power with MI6 to have the infamous James Bond as his brother-in-law."

Clever, indeed. Very, very clever, and anger washed through him. Objectively, he noted the sadness on Willoughby's face as he took in the anger on James'. He was angry, livid, actually, because much of what Willoughby had said was probably true, if not wholly true, and Mycroft had manipulated him like a master puppeteer.

"It's my family," Willoughby whispered to him, "and I love them, but in so many ways, it's not easy to be a part of. There've been a lot of times when I wished I…" He shook his head, looking exhausted and lost and like he knew James was about to walk out the door.

"Doesn't John mind?" James asked, bewildered. Willoughby hadn't answered that. "Does he know?"

"Call him. Call him and ask."

"What's his number?" 

Willoughby rattled off his telephone number and James called it, listening to it ring.

"James?" John answered. "Sherlock predicted you'd be calling just about now. Was he right? Did Willoughby figure out Mycroft's master plan?"

"You knew?" James barked into the phone.

"God no," John said. "I never know until it's all over. I may have once upon a time thought myself an intelligent man, and I don't mean that to sound so self-deprecating, because I am pretty bright, but I lost any delusions that I can keep up with the Holmes' three ring circus."

James watched as Willoughby went into the bedroom and closed the door. "Why do you stay? How do you not feel as if they're laughing at you like some chimpanzee in the zoo throwing its shit around?"

There was a long, long silence, and James felt an echo of Willoughby's sadness press against his heart.

"I doubt my answer will be of much help to you," John finally said. "I came home from Afghanistan and my life here in London was stultifying. I was dying more from a total lack of purpose than from the bullet I took. I didn't know how to be normal anymore. And then I met Sherlock, and he was like a shooting star. Oh, shut up, you nutter," he said, presumably to Sherlock. "Let me go upstairs."

"I can still hear you," Sherlock said loudly enough to hear through the phone.

"But I won't be able to hear you," John said in return. There was the sound of feet clomping upstairs and then a door being shut. "Sorry about that. Sherlock's a daft bugger, no doubt about it, and Mycroft's an interfering git--"

"And Willoughby?" James asked, wondering what John had to say about him in frank terms.

John laughed. "Willoughby is a bloody dangerous computer hacker, and thank God Mycroft annoys them both, because if he could talk them into actually working with him, they'd all take over the Earth."

"Not just Britain?" James asked, almost grinning.

"Heavens no. They'd go for Europe first, and then head east and south, like a one-sided game of Risk. The world would fall. Except Sherlock would probably get bored at some point, and Willoughby would lose his focus when something shiny attracted his attention, and Mycroft would be left on his own, which is usually what happens, eventually."

"Mycroft's set up things pretty well for himself at MI6."

"Has he? Do you really think Willoughby would choose Mycroft over you?"

"He did," James pointed out. "He left MI6 to avoid me at Mycroft's suggestion."

"That was before he knew you could care for him. Mycroft aside, Sherlock and Willoughby are not that different. They really want someone to love, even though Sherlock would shoot me a venomous look and sweep out of the flat in a huff if he heard me say that."

"Mycroft doesn't want someone to love?"

"He already has it. He's in love with power, and he loves his family. I know he has a very frightening way of doing it, but there's a different way to interpret everything Mycroft's done. He has procured a job for Willoughby that he will love because it will be so challenging and, through it, Willoughby gets to keep you safe; he's made sure Willoughby is protected through his relationship with you, and he's helped to protect Britain, because no one will protect her foreign interests better than all of you with Willoughby's protection."

James slid down the wall until his arse was on the living room carpet. "Do you believe that?"

"I believe that Mycroft is smart enough, and devious enough, to achieve dozens of goals at a time, but the fact that he used you to meet some of his goals doesn't mean he wasn't taking care of you at the same time. I have brought this to his attention a few times, when I've fallen foul of his machinations, especially when he's bemoaning his horrible brothers, and I've told him to his face that he's a big phony."

James' eyebrows went up. "And he hasn't had you killed?"

"I think he appreciates the fact that someone firmly believes that he cares for his very odd little family and will do anything to protect them, even if it costs him their affection. He certainly sees me as an ally in taking care of Sherlock, much as I'm sure he sees you in the same light for Willoughby."

"I really, really don't like being played."

"I understand. I do. It goes against the grain for people like us. But you're the only one who can decide if it's too high a price to pay for Willoughby. Mycroft didn't make Willoughby fall for you, and he didn't make you fall for him. That part's real, I suspect, although I may be speaking out of school. I'm just assuming that if Mycroft has somehow put his seal of approval on the two of you, that he saw something real between the two of you. Did he?"

"Yes," James said immediately.

"So why let him sour it? He'll respect you more if you ignore him and just do what you think is right. And take care of his little brother, of course."

James wondered how Willoughby was still sane. One answer was that he probably wasn't, not completely. However, neither was James. And Willoughby was dangerous. James had positive proof of that, and a picture on his refrigerator of a sink hole where there shouldn't be one. And who else could use someone so bloodthirsty on his side than an MI6 agent?

"Does it happen all the time?" James asked John. "The manipulation?"

"No," John said, reassuringly. "Mycroft has dozens of fingers in dozens of pies, and can't spend all his time on his family. He just takes advantage of opportunities when he sees them. He might ask you for favors, though. Just do the ones you feel okay about and say no to the rest. He'll think more of you in the long run. That's the best advice I can give you."

"And you'll meet me for a pint whenever I ask?"

John laughed. "If I'm not on a case with Sherlock, I'm all yours. Does that mean you're not going to run away? I'm sure Willoughby must be in a proper depression by now. God only knows what trouble he's getting into. You might want to check on him."

"God," James said, getting to his feet and racing to the bedroom, throwing open the door. Willoughby looked up from his laptop, a painful hope shining from his eyes. "I have to go, John. Thanks."

"I hope that didn't really mean that you have to go save Britain now from Willoughby," John said with a laugh. "If it does, I don't want to know." John disconnected the call from his end.

"Hi," Willoughby said.

"Did you blow something up?" James asked, chin pointing at the laptop, as he slipped his phone into his pocket.

"No, I'm just looking at the intel Mycroft sent M. I wanted to make sure it was complete."

"That sounded like a story back there at MI6. Someone named Moriarty?"

"A very long story," Willoughby agreed. "I'll tell you sometime, if you want." He cleared his throat. "Assuming you'll be sticking around." His gaze left James' to wander around the room, occasionally darting back to James and away again.

James crossed the room and closed Willoughby's laptop, pushing it aside. Then he straddled his lap and pushed him down on the bed. "Right now, I'm not liking your family very much, except for John."

"He's wonderful," Willoughby agreed. "He's so normal. Or what normal seems like it should be. He can't really be normal if he's chosen Sherlock, but he's so good at acting like it." His hands went to James' waist, nervously alighting there and then away, as if he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch.

James felt a little stunned by Willoughby's comment, to think that he had never had a moment of normal in his life, that he'd been an outsider looking in like some urchin with his nose pressed to the glass, looking covetously at normal and wondering how to get some. "Listen to me," James said, putting his hands over Willoughby's and pressing them to his waist, "I'm not going anywhere."

Willoughby dragged his hands away and covered his face, as if trying to hide his emotions, but a half-sob escaped. "Oh, God. Thank God."

"Shift up," James said, grabbing Willoughby's hips and urging him to move. Willoughby got his feet on the bed and shoved back until his head was on the pillows. Then James took his hands away and kissed him gently. "I’m sorry I lost it. I'm sorry I even considered anything else, even for a moment. I’m sorry I let your arsehole of a brother make me forget that I love you and that he didn't have anything to do with that."

Willoughby's eyes were bright as he gazed up at James. "I absolutely adore you."

James grinned down at him. "Just giving your double-0 his due."

"So you think you can deal with my family?" Willoughby asked, still sounding hesitant.

"Lord no," James said. "I think they're all daft, and I’m sure I'll be butting heads with them constantly." He took Willoughby's hands in his. "And I also know that you won't believe that until years have passed and I'm still here. And I know that you still don't really believe that I love you and am in this for keeps. And that's okay."

Willoughby looked awash with guilt.

"No, no, it's okay. At some point I'll get annoyed if you keep not trusting me, but I'll give you a couple of years to come around. If you still don't trust me at ten years, I'll shoot you."

That got a grin. "Promise?"

"Promise," James said. "And as part of my plan to win your trust, I'm going to go home, shower, change, and then pick you up at seven and take you out for dinner. Then I'll bring you back here and kiss you until you are seeing stars, and then I'm going to go home." Willoughby melted underneath him, and James couldn't wait to take him to bed, but he was waging a war here, and it meant giving up a few battles. "Wear something nice."

"It will be lovely to go out for a nice dinner that doesn't end up in tears for most of the wait staff and the manager," Willoughby said wistfully. "Family dinners were always a bit of a disaster."

"Didn't you go out when you were in Uni?" James asked, appalled at the thought of a Holmes' family dinner being thrust upon unsuspecting civilians.

"Not really. I was quite young and Mycroft tended to hover. I didn't really have friends."

"I'll share mine with you. Eve and Alec both want to meet you." James longed desperately to bring as much normal into Willoughby's life as he could manage. The irony that an MI6 agent was a bastion of normalcy in this relationship didn't escape James.

"Really?" Willoughby asked, beaming. "Will you invite them to join us tonight?"

"No, tonight's just for us. Maybe later this week. I'll call M when I get home and find out when you start."

"Okay," Willoughby said, looking ridiculously happy. 

James got off of him and saw that even his toes were wiggling. "Don't kill anyone while I’m gone." Then, James added, "Unless you need to help one of the double-0s. Are you set up here to help from home?"

"I am," Willoughby said. "I'll need to set your home up as well." His toes wiggled again.

"Good idea," James said. That way when Willoughby moved in, it would already be set up. "Don't forget I'm coming back."

Willoughby frowned at him, frowned at the laptop. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and set an alarm. "Seven?"

"Set it for six. You need to take a shower and change."

"Right," Willoughby said, fixing the time. The only thing missing was the tip of Willoughby's tongue sticking out of his mouth, like a six-year-old struggling over his times-tables. "There," Willoughby said with satisfaction, as if he'd fixed global warming. "Shower and change. Anything else? Is there anything else I'll need to do to get ready?"

James let out a groan. "Oh, God, you're a daft bugger, too, aren't you?"

Willoughby laughed. "I'm a Holmes."

The End


End file.
